


A Simple Twist of Fate

by jld_az



Series: Where Have You Been, My Blue-eyed Son [5]
Category: Chronicles of Amber - Roger Zelazny
Genre: Bisexual Male Character, Courtship, Domestic Fluff, F/M, M/M, Meet-Cute, Non-Explicit Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Romance, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:21:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 29,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24853738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jld_az/pseuds/jld_az
Summary: aka The Courtship of Tristan Rozenberg and C C de la Mahre. ❤️(Story begins a few months after 'The Distance to Here'.)Title from 'A Simple Twist of Fate' by Bob Dylan
Series: Where Have You Been, My Blue-eyed Son [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1798066
Comments: 9
Kudos: 7





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is (technically) a '[And We Are Merely Players](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1709362)' interlude piece, but since it's told from Tristan's PoV it also fits right into his 'Where Have You Been, My Blue-eyed Son' arc.

It started with an invitation.

The professionally printed cardstock proclaimed that, by an audience of its peers, ‘Fall of Arrows’ had been nominated for several prestigious awards within the Golden Circle’s theatre community (“including Best Original Score, Best Debut Production, and Production of the Year!” its left margin screamed in loopy, lime green lettering). As an early supporter of the project’s development (“and as a cherished friend” had been added in superimposed, block-print blue), the writers would be pleased to have him attend the ceremony as their honoured guest, should he be available. (“Please be available! V2NB”, signed in graphite.)

Tristan smiled at it for a long moment, then sat down to pen his RSVP.

* * *

The event was semi-formal, and it was early summer, so he paired one of his pale cream linen suits with a crisp white button down, diagonally-striped cerulean blue and ash grey tie, tan brogues and belt and watch band. He trimmed his beard to a slightly-longer-than-stubble length, and left his hair roughed up because it looked better that way.

The event was also local that year, so he took a hackney to the venue, and presented his ticket at the door. Was shown to his table by a hostess, where he found Viola, Victor, and Byron were already into their drinks, and wildly effusive for it. They greeted him with an abundance of glee, hugs and cheek-kisses all around, and shoved a ribbon-adorned bottle tote of Helbour Gold into his hand as a token of their esteem.

Ethan gave him an appreciative up-and-down when he appeared, and Tristan couldn’t help doing the same, but there was nothing behind it for either of them. They shared a friendly moment in casual greeting - nice to see you, how’ve you been - before the baritone was being called away to answer more pressing questions for one of the numerous Arts agencies covering the presentations.

Tristan located his name card at the twelve top, and sat down in front of it. He chatted amiably with various theatre folk while they waited to congratulate the others on their nominations, but kept having to check himself when people passed too close behind him, or stepped up too quickly; was seriously contemplating the social faux pas of swapping seats with someone who was not there yet, just to get a wall at his back, when he heard a lilting voice from off to his right say,

“Excuse me, but I think there’s been a mistake.”

He turned toward it, quizzical. “Pardon?”

She was dressed like summer in the north country; like she’d strolled through the wild lilac and goldenrod fields of Rjimswood, and they’d hitched a ride south on her curves. Her hair was a cascade of soft mahogany curls, strategically pinned, and dotted with tiny violet buds. She blinked at him in return, her hazel eyes bright. When she smiled, they crinkled.

“Oh!” she said.

It was an exclamation of genuine surprise, coupled with an expression of delighted recognition, and Tristan was making to rise and introduce himself when her approach was intercepted by a Patron of the Arts. She mouthed a regretful apology back over her sunkissed shoulder at him as she was swept away.

He relaxed into his chair again, but glanced at the name card in front of him as he did (yep, still his). After a beat he sat forward, and with one finger carefully slid the next card - which had been angled slightly away from him - into the light. Read: ‘C C de la Mahre’.

He sat back, and sipped his drink.

* * *

Life got easier once the room filled up, and there was generally less milling around. Their server came by to refill waters, take first course and drink orders. Ethan introduced Tristan to the rest of the table after, and in this manner he met the director, the conductor, the set designer, and (when he arrived) Ethan’s husband, Paulo, who was also the production’s costumer. The chair to his right - the one between them, the one he’d contemplated swapping for - remained empty.

The first course was just being set down when Dahm de la Mahre returned, this time on his left. She apologized to everyone, servers included, for being delayed. She requested the summer squash bisque and a Winter Wheat on the rocks, then dropped her attention to Tristan, and rested a hand on the back of his chair.

“Hi,” she beamed when he tilted his chin up to acknowledge her.

“Hello,” he replied, slightly bemused.

“Have you met CeCe yet, Tristan?” Ethan asked, eyeing him over a forkful of scallop.

Tristan glanced around the table, and shook his head. “I’m afraid I still don’t get to the theatre much, Ethan,” he admitted, face creasing in a rueful smile. “Or attend many theatre-related events.”

“Actually,” she interjected, and her hand moved from the back of the chair to curl lightly over his shoulder, thumb at his collar, “I’m certain we’ve been in the same places a time or two, but I’ve never had the pleasure of an introduction.” She then offered the hand to him in greeting, “CeCe de la Mahre.”

Her fingers were slender and cool in his palm: pale almond skin, smooth like buttermilk, with blush-coloured nails, and a faint constellation of freckles at the back of her wrist. His hand felt oddly clunky in taking it.

“Tristan Rozenberg,” he replied, following her informal address. “Congratulations on your nomination.”

She demurred a little at that. “Thank you. It truly is an honour to be included among such extraordinary talent.”

It was a canned response that he’d heard countless times over the preceding thirty minutes, but coming from her it felt deeply genuine; as though she didn’t _quite_ believe she was deserving of the accolade. It pulled at him a bit, lifted his cheeks in a smile that originated somewhere far away and almost forgotten.

“If you’ll accept the opinion of a plebeian,” he said, “ _I_ think you’re in the right company.”

Beyond her, Viola laughed. “Did I just hear you call yourself a 'plebeian’?”

“You know what, Pinkerton,” he retorted, all feigned indignation. They shared a sideways smile, then Vi went back to her own conversation.

Tristan felt a thumb slide across the back of his hand, and realized he still had hold of CeCe’s fingers. When he started to pull away, she squeezed lightly.

“As I was saying earlier,” she implored, “I think there’s been a mistake.”

Tristan’s brows rose, and he panned his gaze around the table, baffled. Some of the others glanced over in return, but the exchange went mostly ignored. When he returned his focus to her, questioning, her expression shifted; took on a softness beneath the cheer. She angled her back to the room and crouched down, her voice lowering to a volume just between them.

“There’ll be a lot of activity soon, up and down this aisle,” she said, now hovering at eye-level and _goddess_ , she was stunning. “If you’d like to trade places, I think you’ll enjoy yourself more.” Then she stood, her smile blooming with amusement as she slid her hand from his, and added for the table to hear, “Unless you’d _like_ me to climb over you, if I win?”

From a few spots down, Ethan barked a laugh, and Tristan resisted the reflex to make a nostalgically crude gesture in response to the sound. _Did_ shoot him a sardonic smirk though, so the other man would know he’d caught it, before looking up at CeCe again.

“And risk damaging that train?” he responded with a smile, making note of where it was before carefully sliding his chair back. “I’d sooner torch Distiller’s Row.”

 _Her_ laugh was a sunny thing, warm and inviting. He wanted to curl up in it; wear it like his favourite sweater.

“Oh, now, we certainly can’t have that,” she responded, reaching down to lift up said train by its wrist loop. “Paulo would be very disappointed on all counts. Wouldn’t you, dear?”

Tristan rose and stepped aside as the designer huffed in retort, “I do not like whiskey.”

“No,” she fired back, “but your husband does, and we all know that when he is sad, you are sad. So…”

It was an exchange made in good humor, and a series of chuckles rippled around the table after, but her attention stayed trained on Tristan as he moved behind the chair and gestured with one hand toward it. She dipped a minute curtsey in response before sitting. He helped her edge closer to the table, then picked up his drink and appetizer as hers arrived, and relocated to the unoccupied seat between her and Paulo.

She tilted toward him once he’d settled in, smiling conspiratorially.

“We _have_ actually met before, m’Lord.”

He cringed slightly at the title. “Tristan, please,” he said.

“Tristan,” she repeated. It rolled off her tongue like honey, and he idly wondered if licking it from her mouth would taste just as sw-

He dropped his gaze from her lips to his glass, and decided maybe he should take a little break after this one.

“I honestly don’t recall,” he admitted, setting it down. “I’m sorry.”

CeCe gave a small shrug. “That’s quite alright,” she admitted. “It was a while ago — goodness, a few years before my Beacon Player days, even.” Her eyes widened a bit, the realization a bona fide surprise, and she let out a small, bemused laugh. “A lot has happened since then. I’m not offended.”

The sound had him looking at her face again, taking in the crinkle of her hazel eyes, the flash of her perfect white teeth. It drew up a vague recollection, fleeting as some of his pre-Patternfall memories could still be, and he felt his expression twitch into something perplexed and pleading.

“You came to Butoi-Botal with your sister,” she offered, registering his unspoken desire to remember.

And _there_ it was. He was signing the check, and the serving girl who’d been so patient with them loitering after hours was softly singing along with the band down on the common as she cleared their table and wished him good night and-

_“Did you get her number?”_

-oh. _Oh._ Tristan looked at the name card behind his tumbler, the embossed ‘C C de la Mahre’ across it.

“Cassidy,” he stated, certain. The evening flowed back into him then, bittersweet, and he felt himself breathe a wistful sigh — for seemingly simpler times, for long lost company.

“Yes,” she replied, her tone light and pleased. She held out a hand again, “Charlotte Cassidy de la Mahre.”

He accepted it again out of habitual courtesy. “Lukas Tristan Rozenberg Barimen.”

There was an obvious beat while she examined his face; seemed waiting for him to say more. But then her expression narrowed with intrigue, as though he’d done something unexpected by staying silent, and she was dragging her fingers across his palm in a lingering withdrawal. She picked up her soup spoon, and eyed him sidelong as she dipped into her bisque.

* * *

They settled into a comfortable proximity while lunch was served, occasionally dropping into the flow of conversation around them, mostly content to listen and observe. She was a magnetic presence in his periphery though, and he discovered that being in her focus was a bit heady, but not unappreciated; easy to reciprocate, truth be told. And thankfully his social graces were just as ingrained as his soldiering instincts ever were, so he was able to function without making a complete ass of himself in spite of the occasionally intrusive thoughts about the delicate curve of her shoulder, or the supple line of her throat.

When the last of the plates were being cleared away, and tiered trays of tiny cakes and coffees had replaced the centerpieces, there was a sudden burst of activity as a great number of people rose to their feet en masse, and made for various exits.

Tristan stiffened reflexively, eyes darting in search of danger. But then Cassidy’s right hand slid across the tabletop a few inches to calmly cover his left, and the contact steadied him.

“Intermission,” she explained, turning toward him in her seat as their table emptied. “Before the emcees begin presenting.”

He relaxed with a muted ‘ah’ of understanding, and dropped his gaze to their fingers; wondered vaguely when they’d become twined. His eyes lifted to hers. When she started to retract, he squeezed lightly, a subtle request to stay. She obliged, lips curling in a shy smile.

“I remember you,” he said. She laughed lowly, barely more than a breath.

“I thought we’d established that already,” she replied, tucking an errant curl behind her ear.

“I remember you at The Hill,” he clarified. “The night before we deployed. You sang a duet with a man playing dobro that I heard in my head for months, after.”

Her face twisted ruefully. “I’m sorry?” she offered.

He shook his head. “Don’t be. It was a nice memory to fall asleep to, while it lasted.”

Cassidy seemed to give this statement a great deal of thought, eyes roving his face as she did. For his part, he tried to keep his focus from dropping to her lips every time they hinted at a smile, or a word, or a breath. But it would be so simple to coax her to him, he thought. To ease her mouth to his, and find out if those perfect pink swells were as soft as they looked; if they would let him explore when he-

Her fingers twitched between his, and his eyes flicked back up; realized he’d subconsciously pulled his lower lip between his teeth, and she was watching it slowly work its way back out, gaze dark and lidded.

The sudden realization that this attraction he felt went both ways hit like a blow to the solar plexus.

When Cassidy’s eyes met his again, Tristan _wanted_.

But then the room was filling back up, and the spell was broken. He gave himself a little shake, and this time when she asked for her hand with a small squeeze, he relented; immediately missed the warmth of her digits between his. He reached for and finished off his drink, shot her a crooked smile when she did the same.

“Another?” he asked as she set her empty glass down. She immediately shook her head.

“Oh goodness, no,” she laughed. “Any more of those, and I’ll need an _escort_ to the ladies'.”

He chuckled lowly in return. “Coffee then,” he suggested as she rose from her seat.

The smile she cast down on him was beatific. “Perfection,” she replied, brushing a hand across his shoulder as she rounded his chair. “I’ll be right back.”

Tristan watched her move against the current toward the main lobby before turning back to the table, and reaching for two of the coffees. Realized in that moment that he was _not_ as alone as he’d thought.

Ethan was still there, intently watching his fork pick at a petit pink-and-green confection, a repressed smile pulling at the visible corner of his mouth.

“She’s not seeing anyone right now,” he finally volunteered. “And I think you’d be good together. For what it’s worth.”

* * *

‘Fall of Arrows’ ran the board that afternoon, and with each announcement the response grew more exuberant.

The trio cited him among their host of supporters in their acceptance speech, and advocated for the continued support of Veteran’s Affairs throughout the Golden Circle.

Ethan thanked the usual gamut of writers / director / conductor / vocal coach, but also Paulo “for his eternal love and tolerance; and CeCe, for being such a trusting partner to share this journey with”.

Cassidy looked legitimately stunned when the emcee gave her name as ‘Best Performance by a Female Lead’ — sat blinking for several beats while the room shook with applause until, under the table, where she’d been wringing them since the category was announced, Tristan reached across and wrapped a hand over both of hers. Her attention swiveled his direction at the touch.

“That’s you, ‘CeCe’,” he said, smiling. Out of view, his thumb stroked her knuckles. He canted his head toward the stage. “Better go, before they change their mind.”

Cassidy blinked slowly, twice, then her face lit up in a supernova of joy. She pressed a quick kiss to his cheek as she stood; rounded to embrace Vi and Vic and Byron as she moved down the aisle; was scooped up and spun around by Ethan on her way to the stage. She ascended the steps as though weightless, and produced a small notecard from somewhere in her bodice with a sheepish smile when she reached center.

“I’m so glad I wrote this down,” she confessed. There was a titter of laughter, and then she launched into a quick list of the standard fare, including peers and Patrons and parents, before wrapping up with,

“...and finally to my brother, Kade; who was always the biggest voice in my corner, and without whom I would never have made it east of the Suma. K, I love you, and I miss you. Every day.” She looked up from her notecard then, eyes misty, and beamed radiantly at the audience, cuddling the statuette to her chest. “Thank you.”

The ceremony concluded with the presentation for ‘Production of the Year’, and by that point Tristan was wholly unsurprised to find himself alone at the table for several minutes while the cast at large made a second round of thank-you’s, then loitered on stage for photos while the emcees thanked everyone for attending, noted the various Patrons of the Arts who had made that year’s event possible, and wished everyone a good evening.

With a few exceptions, the crowd was much slower to disperse than at intermission, so Tristan didn’t feel compelled to leave right away. Instead he settled back in his chair and lifted one ankle to the opposite knee, laced his fingers across his abdomen, and watched Cassidy among the press. Her quiet grace was mesmerizing; the way she engaged people with small gestures and bright smiles pulled at him. He caught her casting glances in his direction mid ‘thank you’ more than once, and every time there followed a little spark beneath his skin, a tingle in his fingertips.

It was its own kind of intoxication, and he wanted more. So when the trio finally managed to make their way back to the table, and insisted he join them for an afterparty at Secară, there was no hesitation to his acceptance.

“We’ll meet you there,” Vic advised. “Patron stuff. Shouldn’t be long.”

And off they went again, into a separate room that’d been opened since the ceremony ended.

Tristan scanned the area as he got to his feet, looking for a flash of lilac-and-gold. Even though he was sure Cassidy was included among the afterparty invitees, he was reluctant to leave without saying something to her first.

Locating her was simple, once he focused on the task — the room was clearing steadily now, but she was still the most remarkable presence in it. He retrieved the tote he’d stowed under the table, and made his approach; slowly, since she was conversing with some of her peers. Her expression brightened over their shoulders when she spotted him, so he held back, and waited for her to close the distance after she’d divested herself of them.

“That’s quite the indulgent parting gift,” she said with a grin, nodding at the slender, dark green bag with its distinctive filigree of gold leaf, dangling from the fingers of his right hand.

“Apparently being a good listener earns me the good booze,” he chuckled, lifting it in acknowledgment as she drew to a halt in front of him. “Who knew?”

Their seat-switching moment before lunch aside, it was the first time he’d really stood toe-to-toe with her, and Tristan took the moment to appreciate the fact that - while her heels currently put her just below eye-level - by his calculations, her temple would rest perfectly against his cheek if they were both barefoot.

“Vee-two-n-Bee, it seems,” she replied, nonchalantly poking at the bag. The bow rustled, and she watched it sway a little in his grip before it settled to equilibrium again. “Did they invite you to Secară?”

There was something slightly plaintive in her tone. It made the spot behind his breastbone ache dully.

“They did,” he nodded. “Will I see you there?”

Her gaze rose like a slow dawn, and she met his through her lashes. It was a look he’d seen her wear a few times now — and not just over lunch, he realized. No wonder Aunna had given him shit. How he’d missed it before was beyond him, and frankly inexcusable.

“Definitely,” Cassidy practically purred. Then blinked, attention moving over his shoulder, and amended in a less heated tone, “That is, eventually. I have a few obligations to attend to, first.”

Tristan glanced back to see Byron beckoning her from the other room. Felt her hand slide down his arm as she slipped past him, much closer than the emptying space required. He smiled down at her a little crookedly, allowing himself to flirt back now that he could.

“Take your time,” he said, pivoting smoothly with the touch; a fleeting tango. “I have no other plans for the evening.”

Their fingertips caught, hesitated, then parted.

* * *

Secară was a familiar enough haunt that Tristan felt no discomfort in dropping his jacket and gift at home en route, then sitting at the bar with a Summer Tea to chat with neighbours while waiting for others to arrive.

The trio appeared first, immediately piling on like the young, boisterous Vets they were, and insisting on a line of shots to get things started. He indulged them for the first couple rounds to avoid the ribbing he’d surely suffer otherwise, but generally preferred to sip his whiskey; so after buying the third, he gave Tawni a small nod, and switched to his usual tumbler of WT Reserve, neat.

Cassidy arrived, along with Ethan and Paulo, a little before seven o’ clock. She’d changed into a fitted lilac halter top and straight-legged white trousers, and pulled her hair high in a carefree tail. Tristan admired the exposed line of her neck as she turned back to cheerily acknowledge someone calling her name; watched her embrace the duo preparing to play for the evening with warm familiarity.

Ethan gave Tristan’s shoulder a good-natured punch on the way by, the baritone’s husband smiling around a tipsy ‘enjoy your evening’ as they passed, and it sparked up enough latent shit-slinging-between-soldiers that he _did_ make the gesture in response this time. Ethan laughed uproariously, but didn’t stay to engage any further; just hauled Paulo to his side, and continued through to the back patio which (per the easel beside it) had been reserved for a private event.

When Tristan turned back, Cassidy was making her way toward him — not _exactly_ a beeline, but pretty straightforward all the same.

“You escaped,” he said as she drew within speaking range. She gave him an apologetic grin in response, waving him to stay when he moved to step down from his stool.

“I am _so_ sorry,” she replied, siding up to the bar. “I honestly did _not_ expect it to go on so long!”

“It’s a big night for all of you,” Tristan countered, motioning Tawni over. “And I wasn’t shining you on when I said I had no other plans. Honestly, I’d have probably ended up here regardless.”

The bartender snorted a light laugh, but refrained from actually commenting. Merely asked, “Get you another, Sir?”

“Please. And whatever the lady’s having.” He glanced at Cassidy, one brow rising, “If that’s alright?”

She met his gaze for a beat, then turned to Tawni; rested her elbows on the bartop and asked with a grin, “Any chance at a Sloe Summer?”

The bartender gave a lazy smile / nod / blink combination, and departed. It was a telling choice, and Tristan tilted Cassidy an intrigued expression as he considered it. When she gazed up at him over her bare shoulder, expression going curious in response, he laid out his thoughts for her.

“‘East of the Suma’,” he quoted, one finger tapping the lip of his tumbler. “Takes her beer over ice. Likes sloe rye. I’m guessing .. North Buckden, maybe Stejari Province?”

She looked impressed. “Flatrun Vale, in fact. Well spotted!”

He shrugged dismissively, but preened a little inside. “Active listening and deduction, really,” he said. “But thank you.”

“And hard to top, as far as party tricks go,” she ribbed back, dropping Tawni a pleasant smile and a ‘thank you’ as she received her drink, then straightening and turning toward him again. The golden liquor in her glass darkened by gradient to a slightly amethyst hue; he watched her stir it with a garnish of candied blackthorn berries, her pale pink nails flashing in the light.

“So .. I have a confession to make,” she said. Tristan lifted his attention to find her looking preemptively chastened. “I got the impression over lunch that you and Ethan had some history, so I asked about it on the ride over, and he told me you two dated briefly during OFC..?”

Tristan chuckled, and cast a quick glance toward the patio door. It wasn’t an unusual conversation for him to have, so he took no issue with addressing the topic whenever it inevitably came up. That her tone was genuinely inquisitive though - far from judgmental, perhaps a little surprised - was a pleasant turn, considering the complete lack of effort he put into concealing that he occasionally (as Aunna once called it) ‘played for the home team’…

“I’m attracted to men,” he confirmed with a shrug, nonchalant. But when Cassidy looked wistfully disappointed, he played the statement back and hasted to amend, “Also, I mean. I’m attracted to men _also_.”

“Oh.” She brightened again. “Well that’s good.”

He felt a little off kilter at that. “Is it?”

“Of course.” She casually lifted her drink to her perfect pink lips. “I’m attracted to men, too.”

The words were muffled by her glass, but her hazel eyes were readable enough over the rim.

* * *

“The hardest part has been getting used to the fact that complete strangers call out to me,” she confessed.

They’d migrated out to the patio with their drinks; were currently seated a respectable distance apart on one of the arched sofas, yet close enough that they could hear each-other without raising their voices. A half-picked plate of finger foods sat on the cushion between them, as though playing chaperone.

“I suppose, after this, the disparity between ‘people I know’ and ‘people who know me’ is going to get bigger, but it comes with the territory.” Cassidy’s face creased in a self-deprecating smile. “That probably sounds silly to you, considering.”

Tristan was a bit flummoxed. “Why would it?”

Cassidy opened her mouth to reply, then looked slightly perplexed herself. “Because I _chose_ this life,” she stated, as though that explained everything. “But you’re .. who you are.”

The note took a minute to set in. When it did, he laughed, genuine and loud; felt eyes turn their way, and toned himself down.

“I think you’re giving my pedigree too much credit,” he said. “I’ve spent most of my life among the rank-and-file, Cassidy. I get much less attention than you think.”

“Do you though?” she countered, skeptically amused. “There was a lot of press coverage today, Tristan. Enough that I'd wager we’ll be on the front page tomorrow. Commentary above the fold: ‘Prima Donna Lands Lauded Lord’.”

The statement ended with an upward lilt, as though posited as a question rather than a fact, and she lowered the hand she’d used to illustrate the span of the headline with a cheeky smirk.

And while he knew what she was saying was likely to be true, Tristan didn’t pay enough attention to the society pages to care what sort of focus being seen with her would draw. Granted, he tended to avoid snapper attention altogether by being generally boring in public (especially when compared to others of his station), but he was only a man, and the occasional ‘compromising’ photo or two couldn’t be helped. He was, as she’d said, who he was, and that invited a certain amount of public scrutiny on its own. He’d long gotten used to it.

But then,

“I don’t know,” he redressed, scratching idly at his jaw. Because he was a few drinks in, and sometimes that turned his mouth against him. “What sort of odds are we talking, here? Because I’ll agree the show’s success will likely dominate all of the arts publications, but what would lead the rest of the press to believe I was anything more than a guest of the authors?”

There was a small pause. Then it was her turn to laugh, bright and mystified. When his brow creased in an expression that was clearly egging her on however, she muffled herself with the back of one hand.

“Oh my,” she chuckled behind her fingers. “You know _exactly_ how charming you are, don’t you.”

Tristan averted his eyes; tilted his head coyly.

He’d been accused, a time or two.

But weaponizing it was only forty percent intentional, most days.

* * *

“Butoi-Botal, though.” He shook his head, baffled. “That was .. goddess, that was _years_ ago.”

Their positions had gradually inched closer as the evening wore on. Her crossed leg now dangled tantalizingly over one of his, and the arm he’d slung across the sofa was pressed lightly along her back, thumb occasionally making a slow stroke over the buttery soft skin of her shoulder.

“Almost fifteen.” There was a sobering weight to Cassidy’s smile. “For me, at least. I understand time can move differently Out There, though.”

It did, but for him it hadn’t been _nearly_ so long — from deployment to return, his time away was more accurately measured in months than years. He wasn’t about to waste energy pondering that particular anomaly of Shadow, however; not right now, when talking with her was already so engaging.

“All the same,” he replied. “I didn’t remember that night at all until you prompted me - and thank you, by the way,” he abruptly interjected, gently cupping her arm. “I get a little spotty sometimes, trying to recall stuff that happened pre-Patternfall.”

Her smile softened, and she shifted a little in his grip; curled closer, and lifted a hand between them. Her eyes slid across his face to his left temple as her thumb brushed over it, riffling the scattered grey patch.

“I understand,” she said.

The motion was so intimate, the touch so desired, Tristan barely caught himself from leaning into it; had tilted forward, in fact, before he thought to ask,

“May I ki-”

“Yes.”

The enthusiastic consent jolted him a bit. And her, it seemed, because she turned a little rosy across the cheeks right after, eyes clenching in an embarrassed cringe. It was, in truth, one of the most adorable things he had ever been a party to.

He smiled, and lifted his free hand to her neck; eased her in.

Tristan liked kissing. It was easily his second favourite way to get to know someone. And he knew he was pretty good at it, all cards on the table. Thought himself a bit of a connoisseur as a result.

Cassidy did things with her mouth that defied logic; left him slightly dazed and more than slightly compromised. She was playful, which he appreciated and reciprocated; but there was a depth to it that smouldered, hinted toward something intense yet willfully restrained, well below the surface.

He wanted to know more about that, eventually.

But not tonight. Tonight, he’d make sure she got home alright, but he wouldn’t take her to bed. Even though he wanted to. Even if she asked him to. Well, _maybe_ if she asked him to-

Before that thought could get too far, he slowly pulled away. She chased him a moment, then blearily opened her eyes. He met them, unflinching.

“I’m not looking for a quick tumble,” he said. “Just so we’re clear.”

Her breathing was deliberate, same as his. She shook her head.

“Neither am I.”

“Good.” He moved his hand from her neck to her knee, opening their positions to let the moment breathe. “Because I’d like to take you to dinner. Are you free on Thursday?”

Her bright expression turned regretful. “We’re meeting with Patrons in Begma about a possible touring production next weekend. I’ll be there from Wednesday.”

“When you get back, then,” Tristan countered, unfazed. “Unless you can do Tuesday. Monday is perpetually booked for me.”

“Tuesday.” Cassidy’s gaze went distant a moment, then she nodded and returned her focus to him. “Yes. I can do Tuesday.”

Then she was slowly leaning toward him again, body moving in tiny increments.

It was an offer he couldn’t refuse.

* * *

The striking of the buffet tables brought time crashing in. Had them almost lurching apart, then instantly giggling like teens caught making out in the hay. Tristan took a notable moment before standing; then cleared his throat and took another, smaller one before offering Cassidy a hand up. She accepted, sliding her palm across his so their fingers could link once she was steady on her feet. She raised her chin, beckoning. He squeezed her digits between his, and pressed a chaste kiss to her lips before leading her to the open door.

It seemed the rest of their party had abandoned them to their private corner when the outside temperature had descended with the night — something he hadn’t noticed until confronted by the lounge’s much warmer interior. Tawni caught his eye as he let Cassidy take the lead, and lifted two fingers in inquiry. Tristan shook his head, and subtly mimed signing the cheque.

The fiddle-and-mandolin duo on stage were closing out the night with a subdued but hauntingly familiar rendition of ‘Health to the Company’. It was a small tug at his sentimentality, the first song he’d ever heard her sing, and he was tipped into the nostalgia of it. The quick glance she cast him said she remembered, too.

“Seems fitting, doesn’t it,” he commented, offhandedly.

“In the theatre, we call it ‘bookending a narrative’,” she replied. Then laughed a little in adding, “But that makes this whole thing sound orchestrated, rather than a simple twist of fate.”

“Oh, I suppose it could’ve been a _little_ orchestrated,” Tristan countered lightly, catching Paulo’s conspiratorial peek over Ethan’s shoulder. “Out of curiosity, when you were asking about me, did you happen to volunteer anything in return?”

Cassidy tilted her head at him, then followed his attention toward the two men cuddled on the sofa, who were trying to look supremely disinterested in the scrutiny.

“I _may_ have mentioned that the first night we met, you were wearing a dove grey button down with powder blue collar-and-cuffs, and I thought you were the most beautiful man I had seen in my life.”

Her recollection of something so specific was as surprising as it was flattering. He couldn’t have stopped the slight flush that crossed the bridge of his nose if he tried.

“And you thought _my_ party trick was impressive,” he chuckled, tucking their hands behind him and stepping a bit into her space, asking flirtatiously low: “What colour were my shoes?”

“Buckskin,” she stated, without hesitation. When Tristan blinked at her, smiling slowly, wide-eyed at the instant recall, she tucked her chin and turned a little pink herself.

“It’s what I do,” she said. “I remember things.”

He ducked down to press a kiss to the shell of her ear.

“I’m going to enjoy getting to know you, Cassidy de la Mahre,” he confessed.

* * *

He hailed her a hackney after closing out his tab; helped her into it and was very tempted to climb in behind her — especially when she practically melted against him as he kissed her goodnight. Instead, he took a deep breath, and used every fiber of his resolve to ease away.

“I’m at Marquetry Square,” she advised through the window as he closed the door between them. “Down by the Râuabhainn. Do you know it?”

“I know it,” he confirmed, handing coins up to the driver before stepping back from the curb. “Tuesday, seven o’clock?”

Cassidy smiled, nodding. “I look forward to it.”

“Likewise,” he replied. “Goodnight, Cassidy.”

She rested her chin on her folded hands, one elbow hanging out the window.

“Goodnight, Tristan.”

He made a small motion to the driver then, who clucked at his horse in response. She pressed her fingers to her lips, then waved them at him as the carriage drew away. He watched it turn northeast toward the river, and disappear from view.

Then he directed himself up the street, slipped his hands into his pockets, and with buoyant strides he walked home.


	2. Chapter 2

Of the two main waterways that cut through Cathair du Varos, Tristan preferred the Râuabhainn to the Walebonn. Where the latter was a wide, swift-moving straight, full of commercial vessels and commuter transport, the former was a lazy sway of oxbows that was aesthetically pleasing, but ill-suited for anything more than recreational use between the capital and the eastern sea. It was still viable real estate however, and over the years had sprouted up a fair number of residential and rental properties along its banks; single-family homes where amenities included jetty access for the daily fisherman or weekend mariner, and high-end boarding houses for young professionals looking to live outside the bustle of CdV Proper.

When the hackney pulled away from the curb at 6:55 on Tuesday evening, Tristan paused a moment to admire the aged red brick edifice of Marquetry Square before casually striding across the street and mounting its steps. He nodded thanks to the doorman, who responded with a pleasant “good evening, Sir” and requested with a gesture that he check in with the Registrar. Tristan went where directed without question; crossed the decorative stone floor with purpose and signed the ledger, smiling at the desk clerk as they confirmed who he was there to see, and advised they would ring her of his arrival. With a word of thanks, Tristan took a seat on one of the lobby’s serpentine sofas, lifted an ankle to his knee, and settled in to wait.

Part of him would’ve been surprised that the clerk had ‘confirmed’ rather than ‘asked’, except several photos from the awards lunch had entered a wider circulation over the past two days, and their chemistry was common knowledge now, so there was no sense being mum about it. They’d both known it could happen; had joked about it even. And to the photographer’s credit, the one picked up by the most publications had been a very cleverly composed (or incredibly lucky) shot.

Its intended focus was clearly as it had been captioned: _“CeCe de la Mahre (left) shares a post-ceremony laugh with fellow nominee, Lucinde Tibideux. Dahm de la Mahre was awarded ‘Best Performance by a Female Lead’ for her role of Nola in ‘Fall of Arrows’ at the 178th Patron’s Celebration of Theatrical Arts.”_ Just visible between and beyond, though - settled back in easy repose, fingers laced over his abdomen, legs stretched and ankles crossed in front of him - Tristan sat at an empty table with a curious tilt to his head, and a thoughtfully besotted expression on his face.

(“I think that one’s my favourite,” Leo had commented the previous evening, nodding at the copy of _Arts & Shoals _that Tristan had picked up from the counter when he’d arrived at Balfax for their weekly post-Group dinner. “There’s some great ones of her making swan eyes at you in the Northport Crier, though. Lots of speculation in Pages Three.”

“You don’t say,” Tristan had smirked, blindly accepting the opened bottle of Hammerhead his friend passed over as he dropped the publication back onto the stack.

“But since ‘inside sources’ are generally bullshit because they’re never _me_ ,” Leo had continued as though uninterrupted, tapping the base of his own bottle against the side of Tristan’s to pull his attention, then giving a knowing grin when he got it. “When are you taking her to dinner?”

And Tristan had laughed around his beer. Then owned up to his apparent predictability.)

He wasn’t seated long before the distant clack of heels had him looking toward the grand staircase, then rising to his feet when Cassidy slowly appeared over the landing, cresting like the sun.

She looked radiant in a floral print summer dress, lavender and sage over ivory; with a swooping neckline, capped sleeves, and short ruffled skirt flattering every classic curve of her. She wore silver accessories at her wrist and ears - understated, elegant - and her dark hair was swept up in a strategically careless roll. Her pumps were white, stylish but practical, with delicate straps across her ankles, and a tiny silver bow in front that caught the light as she made her descent. When her steps hesitated, his attention dragged back up the endless expanse of her legs to rest on her face; found her looking slightly bemused, and going a little flush as he blatantly took her in.

That she could look like she did, yet be surprised by his reaction, was unbearably endearing. Genuine humility never failed to tug at him when he saw it.

But then she tilted her head coyly and resumed stride with a sultry sway, white-tipped fingernails glossing down the brass handrail as she openly returned his lingering gaze, and Tristan’s throat clicked in his ears as he swallowed down a sudden rush of adrenaline. He compulsively scuffed a hand through the back of his hair, buffing out a hat line that was not there; smoothed the placket of his vertically striped, pale blue shirt (casual, tails out _shit should he have tucked them in?_ ), then slid his hands into the pockets of his light linen trousers and closed his slack jaw behind a smile; squared up a little with what he hoped was an air of confident nonchalance as she reached ground level and crossed the lobby.

“Hello,” he offered, voice low and (thankfully) steady.

“Hi,” she responded, tangling his fingers with hers when he withdrew the left one in offering, and stepping in close for a quick kiss on the cheek. “Have you been waiting long?”

 _All my life_ , he thought. And the fact that he thought it was not lost on him. She smelled like honey and summer, and it’d prodded something nostalgic that he couldn’t immediately pin down.

“For the record: I’m habitually early,” Tristan replied with a self-deprecating chuckle. “But in this case, no. You’re blessedly punctual.”

“Theatre,” Cassidy confessed in return, letting him turn them toward the exit and guide her along. “If I’m not where I need to be, when I need to be there, things go poorly.”

“Sounds familiar,” he said, nodding again to the doorman when he wished them a good evening as they passed by.

“I think you’d be surprised how much running a production is like running a military op, according to Vee-two-n-Bee,” she mused. “Ethan calls our Stage Manager ‘Master Sergeant’ in fact, when either of them are feeling especially saucy.”

Her words held a laugh, and Tristan looked over to confirm it; smiled in return when she tilted her face up toward him. His steps slowed as they reached the sidewalk, and hers shrank to compensate until they halted a few strides from the stairs. He pulled his right hand from his pocket, and gestured past her.

“Reservations are up the street,” he said. “We have time, though, if you want to take a more scenic route.”

Cassidy glanced where directed, then curled around their linked arms and squeezed his hand; posture inviting, attention unwavering, words just between them.

“How terrible is it that I live so close to the Râu, but rarely have a free evening to stroll the boardwalk?”

Tristan hesitated the briefest moment - because he desperately wanted to kiss her properly, and wished he had while they were still inside - then ran his hand down her arm on its way back to his pocket, allowing himself to press his lips to her brow instead.

“Not terrible,” he said, stepping back to escort her down the street in the opposite direction from the restaurant. “Unfortunate, perhaps, but I’ve known worse oversights, and I’m happy to help rectify this one.”

* * *

It was a perfect summer evening for a pseudo-aimless wander, in fact; with just enough breeze off the river to keep the humidity at bay, and discourage the tiny swarms that usually hovered within it. They took their time meandering through her neighbourhood toward the boardwalk, comfortable enough in themselves to let silence buffer the burgeoning attraction between them rather than weigh it down, and simply enjoying each-other’s presence. Arms twined and fingers linked, exchanging soft glances amid long gazes over the water, they’d been strolling in ambient contentment for several minutes before Tristan made a passing gesture toward a boarding house across the river, drawing her attention.

“I almost moved into a unit over there,” he told her. “When I first came to CdV, before I knew my stipend included housing.”

Her gaze followed his direction. “At Hexford Hall?” When he hummed affirmatively, she slowed to stand at the rail; squeezed his arm with a bright little laugh as he stepped up beside her. “Would you believe, so did I?”

He echoed her sound. “Really?”

“We could’ve been neighbours,” she added, still smiling. “I chose Marquetry Square in the end because it used to be a conservatory. My apartment was actually a practice chamber, once upon a time.”

“I bet that makes for excellent acoustics,” Tristan asserted. Cassidy grinned up at him, pleasantly surprised it seemed that he understood the reasoning behind her decision. He smiled even as he shrugged it off, and made a note to thank Martin for the insight later.

“A good friend of mine is a musician,” he explained. “He’s taught me a few things about controlling sound over the years.”

Her eyes did something dark at that, reminded him of that willfully restrained depth he’d sensed the other night, and it kicked him in the chest how badly he suddenly wan-

“I really want to kiss you right now,” he confessed, the words tumbling out in a low rush.

“I wish you would,” she admitted in return, her empty palm resting against decoratively twisted iron, thumb sliding along the groove. “But I understand why you won’t, and appreciate you for it.”

It was the first response she’d given him that felt calculated, and normally his gut reaction to that was to throw up a red flag. But she’d been so forthcoming about things, he curbed the impulse and poked instead, asking simply,

“Why?”

She gave him a thoughtful look, then responded, “Because I’d rather prefer to see where this goes without the weight of public opinion, and I work with people who thrive on the society pages?” It was a statement made in good humor, but held a subtle edge that got more pronounced when she added, almost offhandedly, “I can’t expect to never be photographed in a way that invites salacious interpretation. And I understand that some people are always going to speculate the worst in others. But I can’t control those things, so I’m not going to live my life in a bubble, either. Not when there’s still so much of it ahead of me. Which means if I want to have this career, but also keep a modicum of privacy with the press, I need to do my part. _We-_ ” she nodded slightly at him “-need to do our part.”

And that was it, the moment ‘like’ began its inexorable slide toward ‘love?’, and for once he had no interest in resisting its particular pull. Because he’d tried to explain his philosophy for peaceful living in the public eye before, with wildly mixed results, and in all those attempts this was the first time someone had articulated it to him first.

“Don’t invite undue attention,” he said. She nodded.

But he remembered so vividly the shape of her mouth against his; how she’d reeled him in, and left him reeling. He brought the back of her hand to his lips, and studied her face over their interwoven knuckles.

“So the other night,” he hedged, chest aching with restraint. “At Secară?”

Her eyes darkened again. “I want so much more of that, you cannot possibly imagine,” she admitted. Then glanced at his mouth when he lowered their grasp to reveal it, and amended hotly, “Or maybe you can.” He smirked, one eyebrow flagging in confirmation as she met his gaze again. “But I’m going to forgive myself, since I’d been thinking about it for a _very_ long time-”

His brows shot up his forehead, “ _Had_ you?”

She pursed her lips, one corner twitching playfully upward before continuing, “-and the only witnesses were the crew and the staff. No cameras around to corroborate.”

Tristan cast a not-so-subtle look up and down the surprisingly empty boardwalk, teasing, “Unlike now, with goddess and all in view.”

His thumb slid lazily over the back of her hand as he lowered it between them, and her eyes dropped to his lips again, tongue slipping out to wet her own when he drew his between his teeth, still so very tempted to lean down those few inches and-

Something rustled and splashed on the bank below. He drew a sharp breath in response. She blinked, and dragged her attention out over the water.

“Shameless flirt,” she murmured with a low laugh, resting her head against his shoulder as they resumed their stroll.

He pressed a kiss to her hairline; acceptable PDA. “Takes one to know.”

* * *

He’d considered a few places for dinner, but in the end had chosen _Hearth_. A converted residence with patio seating over the water, it was intimate but unpretentious, scenically secluded, and served the best lamb chiftele he’d found outside the Buckden. They shared a plate with sauteéd spaghetti squash, and a bottle of Helbour Rouge.

Conversation was light; carefree, even with the undercurrent of desire they’d acknowledged on the boardwalk. Time passed in a seamless trade of starter questions that bloomed and bridged one topic into the next, and if kissing was his second favourite way of getting to know someone, it was only to interactions like this. As first dates went, tonight (to coin her vernacular) was ‘hitting all the notes’.

Cassidy was self-assured, and unafraid to express herself when given an opening, but kind about it in a way that came across as a clever wit rather than braggadocio. She didn’t interrogate, which was pleasant; she asked things in a way that inspired thought and discussion, and he did his level best to return the courtesy. She was also open, sharing details that parallelled his own life experiences (the loss of her father, for example, when she was eight; or her older brother, a few years ago, to accidental drowning) with a healthy clarity that spoke to his sense of self-awareness in a deeply profound way.

And occasionally her ankle would curl up around the back of his under the table, and she’d give him a slow little smile that his face would reflexively mirror, and that ember in his gut would stoke up a little; send sparks to his fingertips, yearning to touch. It was prizewinning-level flirtation.

“Ok, I have one,” she said, twirling her fork into her dish.

“Go,” he replied, refilling their glasses.

“Nothing on your calendar,” she began. “Rainy Sunday afternoon.” She made a small gesture with her fork before aiming it to her lips. “What are you doing?”

Tristan pondered a moment, then asked, “Am I alone?” When Cassidy tilted him a wryly amused expression, he held up a placating hand, “Honest clarification: Do I have visitors, or am I alone?”

She looked contemplative as she chewed, washed the swallow down with a sip of mead, and replied, “Both, because now I’m curious.”

Tristan sat back in his chair. Swirled the contents of his glass by sliding its long-stemmed base back-and-forth against the table with two fingers, and watched the burgundy liquid lap up the concave surface in tiny waves.

“If I’m alone, I’m probably reading,” he eventually replied. “Although to be honest, I might do that with company around, too. But I spent a lot of time living with other people, between dorms and barracks, so I’m just as likely to be playing cards or chatting things out over beers if there’s another person around.” He considered a moment, then added, “I listen to a lot more music than I used to, thanks to recent influences, so whatever the case there's likely something on the gramophone.”

Cassidy’s face lit up like a child’s on Holly Moon. “You have a gramophone.”

“And records to play on it even,” he boasted lightheartedly, then dipped into the undercurrent by adding, “But you’d know that, if you were the company.”

She pinched her lips between her teeth, holding back a laugh that still shone through her eyes.

“Smooth,” she eventually cooed, twirling up another mouthful. He raised his beverage and mocked a bow behind it; took a sip and sat upright again.

“I’ve been learning how to cook,” he resumed, trading glass for fork and loading it up. “Well, re-learning. I’m discovering that sometimes things taste different from the market than they do when they’re gathered at the source, which is an oddity I’m still coming to terms with. And misremembering recipes has yielded some .. interesting results. But rainy days are a good excuse to play around in the kitchen, I suppose.”

She was quiet across the table, and Tristan looked up curiously; paused with his fork halfway to his mouth when he found her staring at him with that same expression of unexpected intrigue he’d gotten at the awards lunch — when she’d given her full name, and he’d responded in kind but-

“Alright, I have to ask,” he said, and she twitched; blinked back to the now as he made a small gesture toward her face. “What is that about?”

There was a slight pause before she dropped her gaze, a flush blooming across her cheeks. Then she set her utensil down, empty. Slid her plate to the side, drew her stemmed glass closer, and gave Tristan her full attention.

“I’m going to preface this by acknowledging that I know you are much older than me,” she said.

And for a fleeting moment he regretted pointing it out at all, because her response required a primer about their age difference and that topic was _always_ a mixed-bag. So,

“You really don’t have to answer that, Cass,” he offered into the pause, with a disarming smile.

She immediately laughed, light and airy, and what he’d misinterpreted as her ‘bracing up’ evaporated with the sound.

“See, but now you’re illustrating the point I’m going to make,” she countered.

“Which is?” Tristan set his finished plate next to hers before resting on his forearms, fingers interlocked on the table in front of him, thumbs tapping together to an unheard rhythm.

“That you’re remarkably down-to-earth for a person of your standing,” she confided.

He chuckled. “Because I cook?”

And there it was again, the expression he’d been trying to name. Almost baffled indignation, but undirected; like its target was a distant, abstract concept, and only she could see it.

But then he felt the top of her foot bump against his calf, giving his leg a little knock in amusement, and she was settling back in her chair with her glass of mead as their meals were being cleared away, replaced by plăcintă and cheeses. The setting sun cast her golden, and for a moment Tristan idly wished he had a fraction of his mother’s talent, just so he could capture how she looked, glowing ethereal against the violet and cobalt blue sky.

“You’re selfless,” she resumed when they were alone, “and genuinely care about others in a way that’s commendable, but aren't interested in commendations. I don’t think that’s something a person can fake, Tristan. Even if they _have_ had twice the years on me to practice.”

 _Or more,_ he thought, averting his gaze but one eyebrow flicking up at her cheeky closure. The _Arts & Shoals _article said she was 39; he’d turned 82 the previous fall. Such was the quandary of the long-lived.

Cassidy leaned forward again, set her glass down and splayed her fingers around its base, stem tucked in the V of index and middle. She rested her chin in her other hand, studying him over her white-tipped nails. Eventually, her lips curled in a slow upward arc.

“I must’ve looked so young,” she said, voice wistful.

“You did,” he confirmed with a nod, then added with a low laugh, “Didn’t stop Aunna from giving me shit after, because she delighted in pointing out my social blind spots at every opportunity. But yes.”

Her face fell in a sad little smile at his sister’s name, but she didn’t dwell there. Instead she slid her glass toward him when he lifted the bottle to divide the last of it between them, and plucked up one of the flaky, apple-layered pastries with her other hand.

“If we’ve finally reached the point of our acquaintance where ‘shit’ is acceptable,” she said with sly amusement, “then I feel no embarrassment in telling you most of my coworkers were absolute rat bastards about the gratuity you left me. For _weeks_.”

He cringed around a grin. “Shit,” he repeated. Then, “Sorry?”

She waved it off and took a delicate bite, expression going momentarily blissful as she chewed before swallowing to reply. “Don’t be. Between that and the money your sister dropped in his jar, we bought Kade the dobro you saw him with at The Hill. So in a way, it all came full circle.”

Tristan jolted a bit, head cocking hard to one side. “Say again?”

Cassidy looked equally surprised by his reaction. “You didn’t know?”

He huffed a long-suffering chuckle, and reached for a pastry of his own.

“Yeah, Aunna did a lot of things I wasn’t privy to.” It was a statement more true than he’d realized, given recent revelations, but less of a bitter admission now than it had been, a few months ago. “It doesn’t really surprise me, though. She apparently had a soft spot for live music, and I know she enjoyed listening to them play.”

There was a very small pause as they both sipped their mead, then,

“I was sorry to hear about her,” Cassidy offered, sincere. “Not to get maudlin, but I wanted you to know, and now seemed an appropriate moment to say something.”

“Thank you,” he replied, a little taken back by the condolence, but overall grateful for her refusal to shy away from the subject as most tended to. “I’m sorry you won’t get the opportunity to know her. I’m pretty sure she’d have liked you.”

He could almost hear her, in fact. A low, slow drawl saying _Stejari gal, huh? Theatre, too? Finally, someone with enough oak to keep you in line, and no fear of sap_ …

The thought made him grin, albeit inwardly. When he looked up from his dessert, Cassidy was smiling back at him; demure, and so, so lovely.

“Are you looking forward to the prospect of touring again?” he asked, hooking the conversation back toward something he’d been meaning to dig into, and hopefully away from melancholy topics.

“Yes and no,” she replied, following his redirect with ease. “It was a wonderful experience, performing with the Beacon Players, and without it I doubt I'd be where I am today. But it was never something we intended to do long-term. We formed for a cause and committed to it, sometimes recklessly; but when the war ended, most of us were happy to be able to go home and move on with our lives.”

It was a very familiar sentiment - personally, and voiced by others - and Tristan slid a hand across the table in subtle offering; threaded their fingers together when she accepted, palms flat to the tabletop.

“Still, you must be pretty familiar with the GC, as a result,” he prompted, tapping the outside of her index finger with his thumb.

“Oh, yes,” Cassidy nodded. Then wavered, adding, “And, again, no. If you’re looking for a hostel or a pub, I’ve likely got you covered, but please don’t expect a high-end experience. We lived rough for The Cause.”

“I prefer the everyday places,” he confessed. Cassidy pointedly scanned the patio as she lifted her glass, and he smiled wryly, caught out. “Yeah, I can tell you’re shocked by this revelation.”

“Floored,” she leveled, setting the finished beverage aside. “Beside myself with disbelief.”

Tristan huffed an easy chuckle. “Opulence can be jarring,” he offered, recalling some of the more bizarre Shadows he’d passed through en route to Chaos. “What a civilization considers its penultimate show of prosperity is often ridiculous to me. But humbler places like this-” he made a small tilt of his head to indicate their surroundings “-are apparently universal. It’s comforting.”

Cassidy clenched her fingers lightly, prompting his gaze.

“That, I can understand,” she said.

Because of course she could.

He rolled his wrist, turning her hand to the side in the process, and ran his nail along the inside of her knuckle. Watched goosebumps ripple up her arm in response, and his focus slid into wondering if she’d do that _everywhere_.

* * *

Tristan paid the cheque as presented when Cassidy excused herself; left gratuity on the side, and met her at the door; headed for the boardwalk in unspoken agreement when they reached the street, hand-in-hand. The evening had chilled slightly with nightfall, but the shared bottle of mead had warmed them. Made her a bit playful too, if her swinging stride was any indication. Her fingers clenched around his as she reeled herself out and then in, a small dance as they passed under a streetlight.

“I think it’s interesting that, for the number of people I have asked the ‘rainy day’ question to, you are the _only_ one that didn’t immediately want to go somewhere else,” she said. “It’s like you didn’t even consider it an option.”

“I suppose I didn’t,” he replied, reflexively directing her into a little two-step spin before nestling her into his side and yes, next time they’d have to go dancing — because he hadn’t in ages, and suspected she would be a very willing partner.

“Didn’t think to say it?” she asked, curling into his sideways embrace and tilting her chin up to look at him. “Or didn’t think it at all?”

Her tone was curious; unguarded. It prompted a heartfelt response.

“The latter, if I’m being truthful.”

She made a surprised little sound, and looked thoughtfully up the path. After a few strides, she followed it with, “Even with what you can do?”

“You mean travel Shadow?” When she met his gaze and nodded, he shrugged. “I get out beyond the Golden Circle sometimes, but honestly I think I’m too much of a homebody to make a habit of it. I’d rather spend time appreciating what I have, than Out There hunting down the proverbial greener pasture.”

There was also something about the Outer Shadows that always felt washed out to him; buffed and faded, like he was viewing the world through a thick pane of glass. Except for The Courts, that was. The textures out there were so sharp, they were painful; riotous.

“It’s not as simple as non-initiates seem to think, either,” he added with a lighthearted tone, squeezing her fingers between his before moving their arms behind him, inviting her to wrap around. She accepted, and he let go of her hand; carefully draped the freed arm across her shoulders, and drew her closer as she rested her palm on his hip.

“How do you mean?” she asked.

“It’s not like moving through the GC,” he explained. “Unless there’s a Path to follow, travelling requires persistent manipulation, and there’s a skill to it that takes practice. Only I spent a lot of years being a Ranger with my best friend instead of Hellriding around Shadow with my sister, so while I’m capable in a pinch, it’s nowhere near what I’d consider a proficiency. When I _do_ head out, I’m usually in tow. I won’t lie.”

She laughed, “There you go, being all charmingly humble again.”

He took the comment with a laugh of his own. But then her nails raked lightly through his shirt, just above where the hand in his pocket had rucked it up slightly, and his brain spun out a moment in thinking about what that would feel like unbuffered-

Time slowly re-asserted itself; caught him with his hands cradling her head, thumbs running her cheeks, coaxing her mouth open with his and goddess her tongue was so hotsweetperfect he wanted her to devour him with it but-

“Sorry,” he murmured, coming to awareness, reluctant to pull away because they were between the lights and it was so dark and quiet and-

Her words were frail against his lips. “We shouldn’t make a habit of this.”

“Sorry,” he repeated, a skip in the record. “Sor-“

He butted up against the iron railing; realized vaguely she’d been backing him into it.

“Ten o’clock Tuesday. Acceptable risk.” She pressed against him with a heavy breath, clutching at his sides. “Do it again.”

* * *

It was a few (very intense) exchanges before the flare had burned itself out enough they were able to resume their walk back to Marquetry Square, and while Tristan was prepared to call it an evening and tough out a hackney home before addressing his lingering anatomical situation, when he relaxed his hold on her fingers at the foot of the steps - a subtle shift of power into her court - she responded by tightening hers, and leaning into his arm.

“Walk a Dahm to her door?” she asked.

So they thanked the doorman as he welcomed them back, and made their way across the lobby toward the grand staircase. Took the lift to the third floor, and managed to refrain from making a scene for the operator. Stepped out into a private hallway with a window at either end and a door directly in front of them, 3C in artfully-printed gold. She rested back against it, fingers on the handle, while the gate clattered shut behind him. His skin hummed as the lift returned to the lobby.

“Hi,” she said, chin tilting.

“Hello,” he replied, stepping up.

Kissing her felt like something he’d been doing all his life. It was effortless, intuitive. Her lips were soft against his; parted easily when he inquired. She sighed into the sweep of his tongue, and it struck his insides like a match — brought his fingers up into the mahogany tresses at the base of her skull, drew him further into her space.

He felt a hand on his chest, and in respectful reflex took a half-step back. But then she was canting toward him and clutching at the fabric of his shirt, rising up on her toes and gently asserting for more as she resumed her heavy lean against the door, pulling him with her. The forwardness slanted his mind askew, turned him on in an unexpected way, and put a crack in his reserve. Tristan pushed back into the kiss; hungry now, insistent.

She sagged when he pressed against her; then arched slightly, and slid a thigh between his in invitation. Deliberately pressed her leg up against his re-hardening length and did not flinch away, but rose into it and mewled when the added contact had him groaning down her throat. His fingers clenched in her hair. She broke off the kiss with a heady gasp toward the ceiling, and her leg made a lazy-yet-obvious slide across his groin.

“Take me to bed, Tristan.”

It was a wolf in sheep’s clothing, that sentence. An order, wrapped in a plea. He let out a breathy sound - a bitten, punched-out noise, low in his throat - and loosened his hold on her. Took a small step back to level his head, and ran a thumb across her cheek.

“Would you be disappointed if I said I didn’t want to assume?”

She blinked. He gave her a regretful smile. She returned it with That Look, then,

“No,” she replied, with startling conviction. “Surprised perhaps, considering the reputation of the Rowan Vert’s preparedness. But not disappointed.”

Then the door clicked, and the hand on his chest splayed out in a caress as the other depressed the handle. His attention darted to the gap, then back to her. She fixed him with an innocent smile at complete odds with the gleam in her hazel eyes.

“I’m a woman attracted to men, remember?” She tilted her head, eyes deliberately flicking down then resuming contact. “And I would be _very_ happy to help you with that, considering I’m at least partly to blame for its condition.”

It was such a candid offer, Tristan laughed with an almost nostalgic delight.

Then he grinned rakishly, and ran one palm down her arm to gently lift her fingers from the handle; reached over her shoulder with the other, and pushed the door open behind her.

* * *

He returned the favour.

She was sweet, like maple and honey.

* * *

“When do you get back?” he asked, loitering at the threshold, shoulder on the jamb.

Cassidy gave him a bleary smile, and leaned heavily against the edge of the door, beautifully disheveled.

“Sunday afternoon.” Her blissful tone turned coy in asking, “Do I have plans?”

Tristan reached over to summon the lift, then leaned into her space, inviting. “Dinner. My place.”

She shifted forward, accepting. “Yes.”

Lingering kisses filled the time until the clack of the approaching lift broke through, and even then it took the clatter of the opening gate to get him to move out of her orbit, so spun up in her that leaving was like fighting gravity.

“I’ll send a hack,” he told her, raking his fingers through his hair as he backed toward the conveyance. “Six o’clock?”

“Six o’clock,” she agreed.

He hesitated, then stepped forward to grab one last kiss, murmuring a quick ‘goodnight’ against her lips before pivoting away. He gave the operator a cursory nod as he passed; turned to face front as the young man closed the gate, and toggled the appropriate lever; watched Cassidy watching him descend from her doorway with an ache low in his chest.

They shared a smile until the rising floor blocked their view, and left them each carrying half into the night.


	3. Chapter 3

Cassidy beamed at him from the stoop - summer incarnate in a pink coral sundress and open-toed sandals, hair gathered at the nape in a loose tail - and his expression broadened.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hello,” he replied, stepping back and extending a hand to draw her past the threshold. “How was your trip?”

“Productive.” She accepted his guidance, taking in the entryway with a curious gaze. “They’re putting it to a vote tomorrow, but it sounds promising.”

Tristan cast a quick glance out at the driver; gave the woman a small nod confirming the end of their transaction, and she tipped her hat in return as the hackney pulled away from the curb. He let the door swing to, smoothing his palm across it as the latch caught.

Cassidy was on him in a heartbeat, hands sliding up his chest to curl around his neck and into his hair as he closed the distance and tipped down; mouth forming to hers on contact, lips parting, eager. He crowded her against the storage room door, fingers kneading where they splayed across the curve of her hips before slipping around to meet in the dip of her back, giving equal to the get because having her had been running a loop in his head since Tuesday and he was almost dizzy with how fast his blood was rushing south now that she was here.

Her lips curled upward beneath his, and she put a breath of space between them. “Miss me?” she asked into it, words washing over his face.

Tristan huffed a laugh. “What gave me away?” he queried back, using his nose to tilt her jaw, so he could drop kisses down the ever-inviting column of her throat.

Cassidy carefully slid a thigh between his in response, and pressed up with intent. He let out another chuckle, albeit slightly more frantic at the edges.

“Yeah, that’d do it,” he conceded.

“All things being equal, I missed you, too.” Her words were airy; strained and restrained when his lips reached the slope of neck to shoulder. “But .. dinner?”

She said it like someone who’d learned that lesson the hard way — plaintive, and a bit regretful. Tristan grinned against her skin, charmed.

“Whose place almost burned down?” he asked, in good humor.

Her fingers combed his scalp as she laughed, “None of _my_ doing, thank you very much!”

But there was a heaviness in the reply that he wasn’t expecting. Tristan eased back to catch her crinkle-eyed gaze, head canted. Cassidy’s posture softened in his arms, fire banking a little from the heat of the moment.

“Kade would get swept up in a composition sometimes, and forget he was frying eggs, or toasting cheese sandies,” she said. “The first year we lived together in Lo Áilt made me hyper-aware of distractions at mealtime.”

It was the complete lack of bitterness in her words - that the statement was given without hubris, or malice; only foregone acceptance that it was part of her brother’s base nature to be distracted by the music in his head - which resonated with Tristan most. It showed her to be someone resolute in their affections, and that was a quality he appreciated on a fundamental level.

He lifted a hand to her cheek and swiped a thumb over the flush on it before giving her a lingering, close-lipped kiss.

“I turned the stove off when you rang the bell,” he assured. “But I appreciate your concern, pasăre.”

Cassidy ducked her head with a shy smile, pinking slightly at the casual affection. Her arms folded down between them until her palms rested on his chest, then slipped around behind him as she stepped closer. She laid her temple on his shoulder, tucked her face into the crook of his neck, and sighed contentedly. Tristan combed carefully through the loose ends of her hair as he wrapped her up, returning the embrace, and marking an easy end to their fiery greeting.

After a moment, she lifted her head up to look at him.

“Show me your place?” she asked.

He gave her an accommodating little smile, and ran a hand down her arm as she released him, tilting his head toward the stairs when their fingers knit together.

“Door’s always open,” he said, drawing her forward as he moved back.

“So proper,” she cooed affectionately in reply, smoothing her dress with her free hand and following him up the steps.

* * *

Tristan pointed out a brief counter-clockwise tour from the top landing - galley, sitting room, balcony, master, bath, guest - and this time That Look was tinted with more affirmation than wonder when she turned it on him. He squeezed her fingers between his, then relaxed his grip.

“Make yourself at home,” he insisted, giving her the option to follow or peel off as he moved toward the kitchen. “Can I get you anything? Water? Coffee?”

“Beer, if you have it?” she replied, her words a little distracted. “Otherwise water will do. Who’s the artist?”

He glanced back to see her standing on one foot, delicate fingertips pressed to the wall for balance as she removed her sandals, left then right. She was studying the collection of framed works hanging by the stairwell — Willow Trace, flanked by miscellaneous sketches of everyday life in the House of Flynt.

“My mims,” Tristan supplied, slipping into a bit of Buckden vernacular as he took a pair of pint glasses down from the shelf, and proceeded to the icebox.

“Really?” Cassidy’s voice lifted in genuine delight. “Is she up here?”

“Other side of the room,” he offered over his shoulder. “Bookshelf, second row.”

He heard the faint pat of bare feet on hardwood as he chipped ice into one of the glasses; set both on the counter before opening a Winter Wheat for her, and a Hammerhead for himself.

“You look like her,” Cassidy stated after a long moment, her voice soft and distant. “You both do.”

Tristan glanced up mid-pour to find her hovering at the photo diptych of his parents on their engagement day, and his (teenage) sister leapfrogging over the back of an indifferently grazing black-and-white Cob.

“Yeah, that Rozenberg jawline is pretty tough to override,” he chuckled. “My cousins on that side all have it too, thanks to her sisters. Between it and the dark hair, we’re a pretty distinctive branch on the Flynt family tree when the lot of us get together.”

“And do the rest of them wear protective gear, when that happens?” She shot him a grin over her shoulder, “All those chiseled jaws and sharp cheekbones and piercing eyes, goddess among us-”

Tristan laughed, loud and genuine.

“-it must be dangerous for others, is what I’m saying.”

“To be fair, I’m the only one with that particular treble, thanks to my father’s contribution.” Still chuckling, he lifted his gaze, and made a slow blink when she turned to better meet it. Then he shrugged one shoulder as he set the empty bottles aside, concluding, “The rest of them have to make due with a cutting wit.”

Cassidy slanted him a coy, sideways grin, but refrained from an actual rebuttal. Instead her attention shifted back to the bookshelf, fingers running across the titles as she walked its length. The lighter of the two pints in hand, Tristan rounded the island just as she reached a much-battered green binding and asked,

“Read this one a few times?”

“Y’know, it’s not a particularly _great_ book,” he replied as she pulled it down, and leafed through its rippling pages. “It’s got some social concepts that sit wrong with me, although I’m given to believe those were typical of the time and Shadow in which it was written. But it’s entertaining.”

Cassidy looked up when he entered her space; glanced from his face to the drink and back again, a fond smile curling her lips.

“Thank you,” she practically purred, reaching across with her empty hand.

Tristan hummed and leaned down; teased the pint out of her reach to lure her forward into a kiss. They lingered in it, making a slow exploration of lips and tongues until he felt her fingers fold around his. He relinquished the beverage as she eased away with it.

“You’re welcome,” he replied, tucking a stray curl behind her ear.

Cassidy tilted slightly into the touch, but her attention was mostly on the back of the book jacket, propped at reading level against her forearm.

“So what’s it about?” she asked, sipping her pint as he returned to the kitchen.

“Basically,” he summarized, pulling a carving knife down from the wall rack, and a butcher’s block up from the cabinet at his knees, “a man raised from birth on another planet is discovered by his native species and taken ‘home’, only to challenge their beliefs on sex, religion, privilege, and death when he gets there.”

Cassidy made a thoughtful noise. “That sounds interesting,” she said.

“Conceptually, yes,” he concurred. “And parts of it will get running around my head now and then, prompting me to pick it up for a few chapters. But it’s misogynistic as hell, kinda xenophobic, and not exactly queer-friendly.” He huffed wryly then, crossing to the stove while adding, “Honestly, the provenance of that single copy is probably a better story. Aunna gave it to me because she _hated_ it-”

“-and apparently you’re a ‘contrary asshole',” Cassidy erupted, her sudden laughter full and real.

He turned holding the elk roast on its resting rack; saw she’d traded Heinlein for King, and read the inscription on the title page.

“See, now _that one_ we actually agreed on,” he asserted, setting the rack on the counter, and moving the entrée to the cutting board. “An anti-hero’s epic journey through post-apocalyptic worlds, seeking answers and vengeance but possibly gaining redemption instead? It’s brilliant. And surreal. I’ve been making my way through the rest of the series, now that I have them.”

Tristan sipped his stout then as he took stock of his carving station; the plates of sweet potatoes and asparagus waiting nearby. Satisfied all was in order, he put the pint aside, picked up his utensils, and asked,

“So would you like to pick dinner music?”

He glanced up just in time to catch the way her hazel eyes brightened as they darted toward the gramophone, and she smiled.

“I was trying _very_ hard not to go right for it,” Cassidy admitted, returning the book to its place and crossing to the music cabinet. “Kade and I had this theory that you can learn a lot about a person by the range of their record library, and when you told me you had one, I was extremely curious.”

“Well this should be interesting, then,” Tristan mused, and set about slicing.

Because the majority of his collection had been gifted by Martin, and would therefore be completely foreign to her. The rest were older volumes he’d reclaimed (liberated) from Willow Trace and Avens Rest - classic stuff verging on archaic, if not for the fact that many of the songs had gone on to become traditional numbers throughout the Golden Circle - and the lone _Bumbly Briar Bunny Brigade_ volume he kept hidden in the mix, just to taunt Leo.

If he was being completely honest with himself though, he was probably equally as curious to see what she would choose: If she’d be adventurous and play something she wouldn’t know, or lean into their shared heritage and pick conservatively.

There was the _shush_ of an album being unsleeved, followed by the click-and-ratchet sound of the turntable being set into motion-

-a cantering guitar, then bass and drum and a tenor declaring _I know there’s nothing to say. Someone has taken my place_ -

Cassidy popped into view with wide, gleeful eyes, and Tristan thought if he could see that every day for the rest of his life, he’d live and die a fortunate man.

“ _What_ ,” she breathed, “is _this_?”

It was his new favourite album, is what it was.

“Fleetwood Mac,” he replied. “Shadow Earth. What made you choose it?”

She flipped her wrist up in response, revealing the cover. “I was expecting minstrels. But this is _so much better_.”

Tristan grinned. “I thought the same thing.”

“How could you _not_?” Cassidy set the jacket down on the raised countertop and pondered the back of it; sipped her beer as she slid into one of the stools across from him. “I’m pretty sure this man would fit right in with most of the art students I met in Begma last week.”

“I will _never_ understand the recurring appeal of leggings-and-doublets,” Tristan interjected, shaking his head with a bemused huff.

“Apparently they’re calling it ‘avant-garb’,” she advised. “I can’t decide if I think that’s really clever, or really pretentious.”

He laughed, but otherwise conversation suspended while he finished slicing and arranged cutlets on plates, laying the last pieces out just as Stevie began crooning about thunder. He could see the movement of Cassidy’s finger tapping a beat against the counter in his periphery, and when he let his focus drift up to her face (eyes closed, beatific), the image of her sitting there - chin cupped in an upturned palm, fingers curled around her smile, the room behind her awash in golden sunset - warmed a numbness behind his ribs he hadn’t noticed before.

She looked perfect in his space, and he was thoroughly smitten.

He was also reluctant to interrupt her listening. So he polished off his pint and took the prepware to the sink; ran the tap hot to wash his hands, and filled the basin to let the items soak.

“I don’t understand anything they’re saying,” Cassidy abruptly confessed. “And I honestly don’t care. It’s fantastic and new, and I fully intend to thank you for it later.”

Tristan shut off the faucet, picked up a towel to dry his hands as he turned to find her watching him. Her tone was dark and rich, packed with intent, and she caught him in a heated look that had him dangerously close to responding with ‘why later?’; to putting dinner on pause and taking her to bed _right now_ because _goddess those eyes_ -

What came out was, “I’m fully prepared to accept your terms.”

(Sometimes, he even surprised himself.)

Cassidy blinked at him a moment. Then her lips spread in a slow grin as she set her empty glass on the lower counter, and sat upright. Her attention scanned the galley around him.

“Can I help carry anything to the table?” she offered.

“Actually, you can help me decide _which_ table,” Tristan replied. “Indoors or out?”

She turned in her seat, and genuinely considered.

“It _is_ a beautiful evening,” she said, standing.

Tristan grinned as he moved.

“It is,” he confirmed, and picked up the plates.

* * *

The new terrace ran the full side face of his apartment, had entryways from both his bedroom and the living area, and was less open to the view of casual passers-by thanks to a flanking of very healthy century oaks. He’d decided on the design in early spring, and the hired crew had completed construction shortly before the start of summer.

Tristan turned on the lamps in anticipation of sunset, and propped open the doors so the music could get out; was secretly relieved but wholly unsurprised when he prompted her to pick a seat at the bistro table, and she chose the one he least preferred. He set the plates down, pulled her chair, and dropped a kiss to her bare shoulder as she settled in; returned to the kitchen for the bottle of Bayle’s table wine he’d trusted the sommelier to recommend, and poured them each a glass before finally seating himself next to her.

“This looks delicious,” she offered, leaning over to give him a peck on the cheek as she placed her napkin on her lap. “Thank you.”

“I hope it lives up,” he replied, a bit self-effacingly. “I know how Patrons eat in Begma.”

Cassidy laughed as she took up her utensils. “They certainly set themselves apart,” she conceded. “And I won’t say it wasn’t nice, being wined-and-dined like that. But a girl can only take so many micro-portions of overpriced Zagahar Beef before she starts craving something more substantial.”

There were so many layers to that wordplay and oh, she was _good_. Tristan slanted her an impressed little smile, to which she batted her eyes coquettishly before raising her fork to her lips.

And the sound she made.

The sound she made at her first bite was delicate and real; something unaffectedly happy, and wholesomely nostalgic.

Tristan openly preened.

“I’m glad you like it,” he said, tucking into his own cut.

Conversation over dinner meandered in the manner of all fledgling relationships - with honed stories made honest by the timid revelations they held, and follow-up questions which invariably inspired new threads - and Tristan felt it was no less stimulating than before, because there seemed to be no end to the array of things they could discuss, but the energy was different — more at ease. Homely.

He excused himself at one point to flip the record, which prompted her to ask about the B4 album in his collection, and he explained that while it _was_ an original pressing, his three-year-old guardson’s fascination with the troupe’s current incarnation was causing the boy’s parents no end of grief, and it was really only there as a slow-burning joke.

“Of course,” Tristan suddenly realized aloud, “if Christian ever _does_ find it, Leo will probably tell him he can only listen to it when he’s _here_ , and that would absolutely serve me right. The awful-but-perfect retaliation.”

Which had spawned tales of growing up with Lord Balfax at Arden RMA; and yielded her own stories (different details / similar shenanigans) of school years at Stejari Provincial, and the childhood friends she still corresponded with.

Which somehow wove back around to family get-togethers; and how they both kinda missed having them, but in an esoteric, not- _really_ -missing-them sorta way.

“Marty calls them ‘rose glasses recollections’,” Tristan eventually offered up as an explanation. “We don’t really miss the gatherings. We miss the memory of them; the joy we felt at the time.”

Cassidy considered that a moment, and gave a small nod. “Yes, I suppose that’s fair,” she agreed. “And I suppose we also tend to remember the flowers before the thorns, which is beautifully poetic.” She cocked her head, asking, “Is Marty your musician friend?”

Tristan bought himself a moment with a drink of wine. Not because he was intending to lie - not even by omission - but because he really _did_ just name-drop the Prince of Rebma like he was any other long-time pal who swung by on the occasional Thursday for an extended weekend, and that surprised him a bit.

But also, did he really want to explain that friendship _right now_? Knowing there was a cornerstone to it that he still felt wasn’t his to share?

Cassidy was clever, though. She was sure to at least sort out _who_ ‘Marty’ was, regardless of how he disseminated the facts at this point.

(It was also a little arousing, he’d discovered, watching her mind work.)

So,

“He is,” Tristan replied, making a small gesture toward the gramophone. “Most of that collection came from him.”

Her gaze cast after his direction, and she nibbled her lip thoughtfully, turning her wine glass against the table. A few beats passed, then she said,

“I really shouldn’t be surprised. He _is_ your cousin, after all.”

Tristan barked a little laugh. “You got there quick.”

She shrugged, and turned her attention back to him. “It stands to reason. This record is from Shadow. So are most of your books. I know at least some of _those_ came from your sister, because she inscribed them, and for all I knew the albums could have too. Except you mentioned having a musician friend before, and there’s no reason for you to refer to Aunna that way. Or as ‘he’.”

The _Who does that leave?_ was an unspoken query in her expression and _fuck_ that was sexy.

* * *

Lanterns kept the deck in eternal sunset even as the world darkened beyond the oaks. They traded wine for jasmine tea, dinner for honey cakes, and _Rumours_ for _Blood on the Tracks_ -

(because she’d insisted he play one of his favourites next, then caught him out when he hesitated and almost put on _Hotel California_ instead, calling “Don’t curate, Tristan! I want your gut reaction!” and so he was wholly delighted when she declared Dylan’s particular voice ‘an instrument all its own’ with guileless appreciation, then got up to turn the album to side b)

-and he discovered that her life in the theatre was almost _more_ regimented than his in the military had been. That between rehearsals, performances, and Patron engagements, it was no wonder she rarely got time to stroll the boardwalk. That this was the first night ‘off’ she’d had since their dinner on Tuesday - which had itself been her only ‘free’ evening in nearly a fortnight - and would be the last she’d have until the show closed at the end of the month.

Leaning back in his seat, Tristan marveled the calendar she must keep. “I feel privileged,” he admitted, fingers curled around the slowly-cooling teacup on the table in front of him, thumb idly sliding along the lip. “And a bit humbled, if I’m being transparent.”

“I would much rather spend my time with you than alone,” Cassidy confessed in return, setting her own cup down and shifting toward him in her seat. “In the spirit of transparency though, I should tell you most of our Patrons have already come out in support of this,” she made a gesture between the two of them, “and will likely start exhibiting that support in the near future, to the tune of gala invitations with an assumed plus-one.”

“‘Invitations’,” he one-hand air-quoted, grinning wryly.

“It’s almost as though you’ve dealt with this before,” she countered on an amused smirk.

“Command gave a lot of ‘you are cordially invited to follow this order’ orders,” he confirmed.

“Oh, so you _know_ know,” she laughed.

He joined in until the sound dwindled, and she made an almost apologetic face that drew his full attention into something more serious. He gave a tiny nod, permissive.

“My career means it’s not easy: dating,” she admitted. “But I think you understand that, better than most. Which is why I feel like this is worth exploring, to whatever end.” Her expression turned plaintive as she added, “Am I wrong?”

Tristan shook his head, decisive. “You’re not wrong.”

“Good,” Cassidy smiled, visibly relieved. “Because with that being said, the next few weeks are going to be very interesting while we find out if we’ve been picked up for another season in CdV, or if Begma outbids them for a touring production. Either way, I’m likely to be tapped for occasional Pressers, and since they’re going to ask…”

It was the way she trailed off that got him; turned his lips up at the corners, soft and heartfelt.

“Be as truthful as you like, Cass,” Tristan told her. “If anyone asks, I’m inclined to say we’re courting. But if you prefer ‘She’s my girlfriend’, I’m adaptable. Either one feels exclusive to me.”

“Are we?” She looked a little stunned, but not off-put. “Exclusive?”

“For my part, yes,” he stated. “Your personal time is valuable, and you’re choosing to spend it with me. I’m not going to disrespect that by shopping around after hours.”

“I-” Cassidy blinked, and her throat made a small clicking sound as she swallowed, then started again. “Would you believe I’ve tried to explain that _so many times_ over the past two years, but this is the first time someone has beaten me to it?”

Tristan felt his face crease in a smile.

“Do you remember when you told me about doing ‘our part’?” he asked in response.

She looked at him, sweet and fond, and reached for her tea. He lifted his own in mirror movement. There was an airy pause as they both sipped, then,

“So if Begma wins the right to tour,” Tristan inquired, setting his finished cup aside, “how long is the contract?”

“Ten months, starting the second week of High Summer,” she answered, a tinge regretfully. “But I reserve the right to negotiate for three four-day breaks in that time period, provided I space them at least a month apart, and alert Promotions if I plan to miss any performances as a result.”

Given what he now understood about her current commitments, it sounded like a good deal. He said as much, and she nodded emphatically around a mouthful of honey cake; swallowed it down with a sip of tea before answering.

“I have Ethan to thank for that, actually,” she confessed. “He's old hat at this sort of thing, and he’s always looking out for the Company more than himself. Which is nice, considering people sometimes like to remind me that, not too long ago, I was Nobody.”

Even though she’d delivered it with bland acceptance, the statement straight out offended him, which was ridiculous on so many levels but there it was, and Tristan felt his face constrict in a rebuttal his brain was still forming when Cassidy hastened with a wry chuckle to add,

“Professionally speaking, I mean.” She reached across the space between them, hand briefly wrapping around his knee in amused reassurance. “Yes, I’d spent a decade touring the GC with my brother and a dozen friends, entertaining troops for nothing but a spot in the chow line after, which spoke of my commitment and work ethic. And I’d understudied some supporting roles in Begma and Murn for a few seasons after, which showed I had talent and a willingness to be Mentored. But I couldn’t break out of the chorus anywhere, because I wasn’t Conservatory-trained and didn’t have the Theatre Clout that came with it. Before _Fall of Arrows_ , I was Nobody.”

There was an emphasis to the words that gave them weight, and Tristan relented with a low huff and a half grin, understanding the feeling of being stuck behind an arbitrary barrier if not necessarily her exact experience of it. After a pause, her thumb stroked across his thigh, drawing his attention before she drew away.

“My but you looked _so_ _offended_ ,” she giggled behind a faux frown, then covered her mouth and _actually_ laughed when his response was to sit up straight and declare in full defense of her,

“Listen.” (And he was all humor beneath the veneer of outrage.) “Setting aside the existential debate over whether or not _Everyone_ is, at the very least, on some base level, _Someone_ , and therefore nobody is _Nobody_ -”

Cassidy dropped her hand to interject, “That came out like you’ve said it a time or two.” Her grin was laced with curiosity. “Have I found a recurring conversation?”

“Not exactly, but my Senior Thesis was on ‘Nurturing the Self within the Unit, as Benefits a Modern Military Functionality’, so I could really get rolling if you give me an opening.”

“So. Many. Layers.”

It was delivered in a breath of awe, eyes wide. Tristan averted his gaze with a coy smile. Might’ve blushed a little.

“What I was getting at,” he resumed, “is how much of an impact that troupe had on the Homefront.” Turning in his seat to address her more fully, he rested a forearm on the table and curled slightly into her space, asking with bald sincerity, “Did you know Vi still uses your show for the MedCorps in Portwinstaäd as a hook to draw new attendants into talking?”

“Oh sweet goddess,” Cassidy effused at the sky. “Does she tell them how she drank most of us over the timber cart, after?”

“No,” he assured, shaking his head with a low chuckle. “She just talks about the show. The songs, and the costumes, and the follies. She does it because finding a bright spot in the dark times reminds them they weren’t alone then, and aren’t now.”

Tristan met her gaze, and let the words fall naked from his lips.

“You were Somebody before _Fall of Arrows_ , Cassidy," he assured. "We all have a story about seeing the Beacon Players, even if it was only at The Hill, and for a lot of us it’s one of the few memories we can share with a fellow Vet that doesn’t come immediately equipped with emotional pitfalls. You should know that what you were part of, it has a legacy that's helping people recover. Myself included.”

(because he’d walked for almost an hour after attending that opening weekend performance, with an ache in his chest that he couldn’t name or place or find the root of except for the leggy brunette from The Hill, who’d stepped on stage and opened her mouth and let all the loss of war pour out of it)

“…Tristan?”

He blinked back to the moment with a small hum of acknowledgment; lifted his gaze, and her hazel eyes consumed him.

She was so close, he could already taste the honey on her tongue.

She was pressing a kiss to his lips, and he was parting them to receive it.

She was crawling onto his lap; kneeling straddling his thighs and crowding him back into the chair; coiling blunted nails into his scalp and breathing heavy against his cheek and practically trembling with want.

And he loved those century oaks. So much. Right now.

Tristan’s arms had folded around her as she’d entered his space, but now his hands slid down her back as he gave over to impulse; slipped beneath her skirt and pressed fingers into the meat of her haunches, drawing up a needful whine from her that his chest rumbled to echo. He could feel her through their layers, an inviting wet heat settling shamelessly over his groin, and the world ceased to exist beyond her lips and her tongue and her desperate restraint and her slow undulations-

“Stay.” His voice was thick when he broke off to use it; foreign even to himself, he was so rapt. “Tell me you can stay.”

Because he wanted to take his time in exploring her; to map every inch, and catalogue every sound. But if she had to be somewhere, early-

“I can stay,” she breathed, and resealed the gap.

* * *

She had dimples in the small of her back, and freckles between her breasts, and a beauty mark near her left hip, in the shallow of her pelvis.

She made a sound, when he tongued across the hollow behind her knee on his way up her thigh, that would’ve vaporized ice on contact.

She was responsive. And receptive. And _radiant_. She gave direction with confidence and praise with sincerity; called him ‘mi milis’ on choked breath. _My sweet_.

She offered to prepare him, fingers delicate on his shaft as she rolled the condom in place, and he was _on fire_ for this woman. He gave himself a few slow, slick strokes as she sank onto her back in a beckoning loll; curled toward her, over her, positioned himself between her legs. His fingers wrapped around the back of her knee, hitched it up over his hip, cradled it in place as he pressed into her and _fuck_ the yielding warmth that surrounded him was _ev-ry-thing_.

She made a high, blissful noise when he bottomed out. It dropped his head and pulled a low, desperate echo from him - call and response - and for a long beat, it was all he could do just to keep from going off. Body curled over hers, lips pressed to the join of shoulder and neck, he oscillated a deep breath, and waited for the sharp edge to recede.

Then she breathed his name.

One of her hands made a slow drag up his back, skirting across his scars as though they were not there, and came to rest on the cap of his shoulder. Her body made a slow, rolling motion beneath him. His hips rocked forward in reflex, chasing the sensation, aching for it. He set a deliberate pace by it, luxurious and staving, but each tiny sound she let out tugged a cord in his chest, added a little intensity to his movements until he was driving into her with long, grinding strokes and she was hooking a heel behind his thigh tilting her hips up pulling him impossibly deeper moaning-

“kiss me”

-and he obeyed. Lifted his head from her neck and crushed her mouth beneath his; dove his tongue inside like he was trying to climb in after it, fed her all the muffled vocalizations writhing in his chest. His palm slid up her side to press in along her ribs, cup the weight of her breast, and thumb across its taut peak. Her nails curled into his arm, prickled the base of his scalp, and he was already so close soso _soclosefuck_ -

He pulled away with a tightened breath. “Are you-”

“Yes,” she whined back. “Oh _goddess_ yes.”

Hand gripping across the scruff of his neck, she drew their mouths back together by hauling herself up to meet him, and that bit of assertion tipped the scale; did him in. He surged forward, driven to completion, and she wailed behind their lips when he ground against her at full depth, fingers convulsing as she arched beneath him, broke the kiss heaving, forehead pressed to his and breath heavy against his face-

“There _thererightth-_ ”

-he rolled his hips, and the words choked off. Her mouth dropped open on a silent howl as her body stilled beneath him - around him - then shattered.

Time shuddered between the silence and the gasp.

Then it was the rhythm of her aftershocks drawing out his own, and she was lifting her chin up to kitten-lick at the corner of his lax mouth until he sealed hers with it, sinking to the mattress and trading lazy kisses as the rush of release slowly spooled out, their sweat-soaked skins cooling in the night air.

Eventually Tristan stroked a hand along Cassidy’s haunch to the back of her knee; helped unhook her leg from around his hip and thigh before carefully pulling out and removing the condom, tying it off and then all but collapsing onto his face beside her as he dropped it into the bin by the nightstand, slightly graceless post-orgasm. She made an amused sound as he wormed around onto his back, but gladly accepted his invitation to snug in when he lifted an arm to clear the space next to him; rested her head on his shoulder and nestled against his side, arm crossing his chest and leg hooked over his thigh, the arch of her foot matched to the inside curve of his calf. He cradled her close with his pillowing arm, and folded the other around it.

“So I’m thinking we hang a bell on this,” he said. “Maybe go for breakfast at Celdana’s?”

Her hand squeezed his ribs where it rested against his side, chuckling, “Are you usually a cuddly smartass after sex?”

He shrugged lightly. “Probably.”

“‘Probably’?” she repeated.

“I’ve never asked, but I can think of a fair few who wouldn’t argue the assessment.” He smoothed a palm down her arm. “Are you usually so commanding, during?”

He slanted her a glance at the base of his vision. She turned her eyes up to meet it, brow furrowed, a little shy.

“Too much?”

He shook his head, almost dismissively. “Enjoyed it, actually.”

Shy became sly, and she faked a bite to his chest before kissing it instead. He raked his fingers through her hair, and pressed his lips to her crown.

“The way I see it,” he resumed, “I could _make_ breakfast, and then get you a hack home; or we can stop for breakfast together while I take you home. I’m inclined toward option b, since it means I can put off cleaning the kitchen until the afternoon. But…”

He let her fill in the statement as she saw fit, disinclined to assume any reservations she might have. She assuaged his concerns by propping herself up for a kiss, lingering and sweet.

“For the record,” she yawned as she settled back down, “I would be happy to help you clean up to make breakfast in the morning. But I haven’t been to Celdana’s in ages, and I have a feeling I’ll be craving calories later.”

With that, she clung in a little tighter and asked, “Blanket?”

Tristan craned his neck slightly, then reached up and back with his free hand; tugged down the quilt draped across the headboard, and made his best effort to fling it over her with minimal disruption. He was languid with release though, and half drifting off himself, so the best he managed was a haphazard half-fold that at least covered their most delicate bits without smacking anyone in the face in the process.

“Thank you,” she murmured all the same.

He briefly tightened his hold, mumbled "welcome" with sleepy adoration, and drifted off.


	4. Chapter 4

Tristan tilted his head from the doorway, asking, “Are you sure about this, Cass?”

“I know it’s going to make for a long day,” she replied, setting her overnight bag on the sofa as she passed through the living room en route to the kitchen. “But I napped a few hours on the train from Begma, and if I hope to make anything out of this time-difference hellscape we’re stuck in for the next nine months, there’s no time like the present to figure out how best to do that.”

It was a fair argument, so he went with it. He entered the apartment, and crossed to hang her bag from his shoulder.

“Well, Leo and I have kicked one-another’s asses through enough bouts of Shadow lag to have _our_ technique down,” Tristan advised. “And Margie’s pulled more than her fair share of all-nighters in the foaling barn while also raising a toddler, so I’m sure she’ll have some solid wisdom to impart. But if we can’t collectively keep you up until a respectable bedtime, I promise we’ll all be gracious in defeat. And possibly use you as an example to get Christian to shut down for the night. Fair warning.”

“Absolutely no excuses, then,” Cassidy laughed, temporarily emerging from the pantry with a bottle of Helbour Rouge in one hand, and Bayle’s Red Banner Port in the other. She hefted them in his direction, and when he pointed to the left, she set the mead on the counter and disappeared again.

Tristan reached into his pocket then, and pulled out his trump case; thumbed it open horizontally, and extracted the topmost location. Cassidy crossed to close and lock the front door, bottle safely stowed in a tote she held cradled to her chest, and cast an almost trepidatious look at the card between his fingers. She nibbled her top lip.

“I’ve never done this before,” she offered when he caught her gaze.

“Nonsense,” he chuckled, feigning obtuse to unwind her a bit. “I happen to know Princess Florimel is a _very_ active Patron of the Arts. Meeting Lord and Lady Balfax will be a step down.”

The comment had the desired effect: She darted out with her free hand and pinched his bicep, letting loose an indignant squawk that covered his equally-reactive ‘ow!’ as he jerked away, laughing.

“I meant _that_.” She waved unnecessarily at the trump, closing the remaining distance to his side as he lifted the card again and tilted its face toward her.

“I know,” he soothed, ducking slightly for a quick kiss that was equal parts apology for being a smartass, and accepting her gratitude for the same. “If it helps, you can hold my arm and close your eyes. Then it’s a lot like stepping through a doorway, but tingly.”

* * *

Leo had sent a carriage to meet them in Cabra Shoals — unrequested, but not unexpected. It was waiting at the cab stand outside the hostler’s yard with several other hacks, indistinguishable from the rest but for the small crest below the driver’s seat, and the distinctive (B) brands on the horse’s shoulders. Tristan thanked Mister Collins for his attendance when the Coachman pulled the door with a polite ‘Sir, Dahm’, and settled into the backward-facing seat out of habit. Cassidy sat across from him, where the midday sun bathed the bench in a pale golden wash, and immediately muffled a yawn behind her knuckles.

“It’s not too late to grab a coffee for the trip,” Tristan advised with a kind look, reaching across to cap her knee with his palm as the vehicle trundled into traffic. “Trust me, Mister Collins is accustomed to quick detours and unscheduled stops.”

Cassidy smiled back through the residual exhale, but declined with a small shake of her head, hand moving to briefly cover his where it rested.

“I’m fine, mi milis,” she assured. “But thank you.”

Tristan slanted her a dubious grin, but didn’t question her autonomy. Instead he asked about the wrinkles in production she’d mentioned in her most recent letter, and poked lighthearted fun at a couple ‘invitations’ he’d been amused to receive in her absence. Cassidy’s eyes lost their heavy-lidded look as movement and conversation helped her catch her second (or possibly third, considering she’d come directly from Begma following a Sunday matinee performance) wind, and by the time their carriage was wending its way through Kolvir Foothills - the midpoint of their twelve-minute journey - she was fully alert and ready to get some shop talk out of the way. So they made concrete plans to attend the Zinise Foundation Gala at the end of the month as their next public outing, along with tentative ones to swing by the Baatenbeau Gallery opening the weekend following, and floated the idea of using one of her four-day leaves to maybe visit Lo Áilt for Harvest Moon.

Layered shale walls appeared across the countryside, demarcating grazing pastures from hay fields with elegant curves that flowed along the landscape, and Cassidy made a pleased sound as the scene slid by her window; propped her chin in the crook of her elbow, which rested folded in the opening.

“Not much different from home,” she said. “Less timber, so the smell is off. But the lay is right.”

“We’re closer to the sea,” Tristan supplied, and when her attention shifted his way, he nodded toward a sharp point of land standing out against the sky, just beyond the foothills. “Northport is on the other side of that ridge.”

“Brine,” Cassidy nodded, resuming her observation. “Yes, that would explain it.”

“Apparently, something about that makes this a prime parcel for raising livestock,” he resumed.

Then went on to explain that Balfax Manor was one of several yards in the area that supplied mounts for Amber’s Royal Cavalry, but it was Leo’s three-times-great-grandfather - Rutger Westwood, the first Lord Balfax - who’d made the initial discovery, when he was granted Land and Title following his service in the Founding War. The current Lord had very little interest in breeding horses however; and before he’d married, the operation had been run In Trust since his mother’s passing, a few years after he’d been chevroned as a Rowan Vert.

“He took so much shit, when he went Ranger over Cav after OFC,” Tristan concluded. “A lot of it was good-natured, but occasionally…”

He let the statement hang — partly because some of the not-so-good-natured commentary had involved him, and what was often mis-assumed of their relationship, but mostly for the number of people who believed Lucille should never have been left in charge after Richard’s death; that Leo should have appointed a Trust while he finished school and put a couple Cav bars on his collar, then retired to run things himself decades ago. Never mind that his head was more suited for tactics than bloodlines, Balfax was his birthright blah blah…

He saw her extrapolate the rest of the statement from his expression, though. After a moment, Cassidy’s mouth twisted in a moue and she shook her head; propped her chin in her hand now, and watched the pastures bordering the driveway roll past.

“Because it wasn’t what he was _supposed_ to do,” she said. Then shook her head again, expression softening with a sigh. “People can be hung up on tradition to the point of cruelty, sometimes. I’m glad he had the support he needed to forge his own path.”

It was a heartfelt sentiment; the fact that her eyes didn’t cut over for a reaction told him as much. Tristan warmed, and fell for her just that much more.

* * *

Eventually the carriage eased to a halt at the apex of the arched drive, and he climbed out from the side nearest the residence; hefted Cassidy’s bag over his shoulder, and helped her down before closing the door and giving it a little knock. The Coachman clicked his tongue at the pair drawing, and the vehicle moved off.

In contrast to the sprawling stableyard visible beyond the hedgerow, the manor house itself was essentially a well-appointed cottage: Two storeys of grey brick façade broken by the occasional twelve-pane window, with ivy creeping thickly over the eastern wall and chimneys jutting up from either end of the gabled roof, it housed a private staff of three, and somehow always smelled of fresh-baked things instead of horses. Cassidy's face was bright and delighted as she took it in, then looked toward him and squeezed his digits between hers. Tristan eased her to his side, and tilted for a quick kiss she was happy to return, coiling adoringly around his arm as she did. It made him puff up a little, roll his shoulders back when he straightened and turned toward the house-

-which burst open unceremoniously, letting loose a manly bellow of “Incoming!” moments before a wild blur of strawberry blonde missile came hurling across the lawn, followed closely by a red merle riot of barking.

“Oshit,” Tristan muttered, releasing Cassidy’s hand and taking a protective step in front of her, shoving her bag into the small of his back as he crouched in anticipation.

The flail of limbs and sunset locks shrieked something that sounded like ‘UNKATEA!’ as it barreled pel-mel into the man’s chest, and it was only by virtue of his practiced stance that the collision was restricted to an ‘oof’, and not followed by a tumble into the dirt. He’d also managed to jerk his chin out of the way just in time to avoid the boy’s forehead, but the result was he ended up looking at Cassidy with a crinkled brow that _probably_ said he’d still gotten a little close to connecting below the belt. She cringed fleetingly in return, but seemed more intent on stepping-not-leaping out of the heeler’s rampantly yipping orbit while the whirlwind of three-year-old in his arms chattered on with a tireless run of ‘unkatea’ and ‘mumanda’ and ‘nuroom’ and ‘cuzdabebe’-

“Christian,” Tristan interrupted with an unerring calm, noting her mild distress. “Mind your dog, please?”

The boy pulled back at that, and while one hand remained fisted in Tristan’s collar, the other made a sharp, palm out gesture toward the bounding animal. Face stern, voice just as, he commanded,

“Sadie. Down.”

His hand flattened at the second word, and he dropped it to his side. The heeler sank obediently to her belly, whining plaintively, nubbed tail flicking.

“Good dog,” Christian told her, and reached over to pat her head. She went silent at that, and lowered her chin to her paws. Cassidy visibly relaxed, and graced Tristan with a soft smile.

“Thank you,” she sighed with relief.

It was at that point the boy seemed to notice her, and stiffened in contrast. His eyes slowly widened, face slacking in something that could only be called awe, and as Tristan shuffled his gaze from his guardson to his girlfriend, he thought quite clearly _Yeah, me too, kid_ , and chuckled.

She was returning Christian’s look of wonder with one of friendly bemusement, and with the dog now lying calm at her feet, she was happy to crouch down to the child’s level for an introduction.

“Hi,” she said, holding out a hand. “I’m Cassidy.”

“You look like Lola Lollop,” he blurted in return. And Tristan supposed, with those big hazel eyes and little button nose, her hair split into low tails around her ears like it was, she kinda _did_ resemble the lop-eared Bunny-

“ _Chris_ tian!” Leo wailed the name with such deeply affected suffering as he crossed the front lawn, it was suddenly all Tristan could do not to bust out laughing. “ _Manners_ , son. What do we do when someone introduces themself?”

The boy had looked to his father when his name had been invoked, but now Young Lord Balfax seemed to take on a different persona as he straightened up and accepted the woman’s offered hand.

“Hello. I am Christian Av’ry Westwood. It is very nice to meet you, Miss Cas’dy.”

She did not miss a beat. Only demurred over his acknowledgment, and replied, “The pleasure is mine, Young Lord.” She then cast a conspiratorial look around, and leaned in to stage-whisper behind her free hand, “And I’m honoured to be compared to Lola. I’ll tell her you said so, when I see her next.”

Tristan felt the boy’s fingers tighten at his collar moments before his landed fish expression turned to confirm what he’d heard - that _this person_ actually _knew Lola Lollop_ -

“It’s true,” he assured with a nod. “Cassidy knows _all_ of the Bunny Brigade.”

“ _Excellent_ ,” Leo interjected with an honest if weary chuckle. “ _You_ can take him next time.”

“I’ll work it into my schedule,” Cassidy laughed in return, and straightened with ease to greet the elder Westwood’s approach. “I’m happy to finally meet you,” she said, extending him the same upturned palm. “Cassidy.”

“Leo,” he replied simply, giving her fingers a quick clasp as Tristan finally righted himself, scooping Christian up onto the hip opposite the overnight bag as he did. “And likewise. Welcome to Balfax.”

* * *

Over the past few months, Tristan had discovered that watching Cassidy in her element could be truly mesmerizing. The ease with which she wove conversation to include those around her was a skill he admired; the way she engaged in discussions with her whole self one-on-one was a level of inhibition he knew he’d never have. Sometimes, talking with her was to be simultaneously the only creature in existence, and a single, cognizant thread in the tapestry of the universe.

This .. was different.

This was Cassidy slightly out of her comfort zone, but trying gracefully not to be. And succeeding.

For here was Lord Balfax, the sixth of his Title, offering a tour of the home his ancestors had built when Amber was fledgling and new-

-but also here was Colonel Westwood (HMC, RV-FC, Ret.), decorated veteran of two historic wars, and the new Professor of Tactics at Arden OFC-

-but mostly here was Leo, dedicated husband and father, her boyfriend’s brother in all ways but blood, strolling them across the lawn with a disarmament of self that left her no cause to read into.

Adaptation was his friend's nature, and since she’d gone for the casual introduction based on Tristan’s assurances that, like him, Leo had never stood much on Courtly formalities, he’d run with it easily. So from the outside looking in, it was probably very similar to what others had seen (sans flirtation) the first time _they’d_ met at the awards lunch — which was Cassidy coming to terms with someone of a certain station acting directly against what she’d come to see as The Standard, and discarding her preconceptions accordingly.

It also helped, he supposed, that Leo was quite willing to share _all_ of his very best icebreaker stories with her, but most importantly those involving Tristan doing something truly tragic between the ages of seven and seventeen:

“And this is where he busted out two teeth, smashing his face into a planter my mum had just set out to get some sun…”

“And that’s the century oak he beamed _at least_ twice a day the summer he grew a foot…”

“And there’s where my da threw a bucket of water on him for tussling with Meredith Laroux in the peonies-”

“Why are you like this?” Tristan groaned over that one. Cassidy was weeping from laughing. On his hip, Christian cawed in his ear.

“Why’r you like this?” the three-year-old parroted through his own affected peals, leaning forward to look past the woman walking beside the man carrying him. “Da, _why’r you like this?_ ”

Tristan roughly tousled his hair, and when Christian reached up to stop him he cupped the boy’s hand over his own mouth. Christian responded by trying to cover his guardfather’s mouth with his other hand, which was behind the man’s head and required extensive wriggling to extract.

“I’m guessing it’s a rider in his contract at this point,” Cassidy eventually managed to respond. “The Brotherhood Clause: Carte blanche on embarrassing anecdotes.”

Leo snapped and pointed at her, but fixed his gaze on Tristan, who was now fully engaged in a slapdash game of ‘Til Someone Loses An Eye.

“She gets it, and I’ve known her all of ten minutes,” the elder Westwood chivvied. “Why don’t you?”

Tristan smirked, and successfully pulled his face away from the younger Wetswood’s creeping fingers. “Give me another century, sweetheart,” he grunted. “I’ll figure it out.”

From behind his palm came a muffled, “ _Why’r you like this, da?”_

Leo raised an eyebrow, then consoled with a wry grin, “Better than the last colour commentary he picked up, I s’pose.”

As they neared the manor’s rear entrance however, Christian’s playful evasions became earnest — first plucking at Tristan’s fingers, and then rearing back almost to the point of overbalance. While the man’s hold on him meant there was never any real danger of falling, nevertheless Sadie, who had been trotting below his dangling heels, skittered aside and whined plaintively when it happened, then moved in again when the boy successfully righted himself.

“Good dog,” Tristan told her, just as Christian started on his welcoming tangent again.

Because he’d suddenly remembered that he _really_ wanted to show ‘Uncle T’ the ‘new room’ that ‘mum and da’ had done up for him (‘because of the baby’).

So Tristan set the boy down as they passed through the kitchen, and handed Cassidy’s overnight bag off to Missus Winter when the House Maven motioned for it (with thanks and a quick introduction), and was fully prepared to have the newly-freed arm seized like a tow line as his guardson dragged him into the hall a few strides-

-except then the boy halted abruptly, and careened around to offer Cassidy his other hand. When she hesitated, he cycled a deep breath, face twisting in consternation, and strode forward to offer again.

This time she reached down to accept, but cast Leo a questioning look as she said, “I should maybe say hello to your mum first..?”

“Mum’s inna barn,” Christian replied, hand curling around three of her fingers and giving a full-bodied pull.

When they both looked at him, Leo confirmed with a nod.

“She’ll be up in a bit,” he added.

“Nothing serious?” Tristan asked, weaving slightly as his arm was swung back-and-forth by the boy at the end of it.

“Oh, one of the colts did something stupid,” Leo replied blithely, scratching his jaw. “Might be a gelding now. I guess we’ll see.”

Tristan winced. Leo dropped his hands into his pockets and shrugged, then jutted his chin at his son, who had set up a persistent tug on both guests’ limbs now to the point he’d dropped to a near forty-five degree angle with the floor.

“I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve lost _that_ battle,” he directed mostly at Cassidy. Adding, lower, “Like a bull terrier.”

Leo excused himself then, citing some syllabi he needed to finalise before classes started in a fortnight. He welcomed Cassidy again, and insisted she make herself at home; reminded Tristan that if it got to be ‘too much’, he could always enlist Miss Noreen to wrangle the kidlet, and take time to settle in. He ruffled the boy’s hair with a muttered ‘be kind, son’ in passing, and retreated to his study down the hall until supper.

No longer yoked by a resistant cargo, Christian dipped alarmingly before scrambling to his feet and hauling them the opposite direction, chattering ad nauseam about how he got to pick it all out himself-

“…e’en the fur’ture, s’why Sadie gotter own bed…”

-and it was insanely delightful, watching him be so excited about his new space that his poor little words were mashing together.

* * *

They were just finishing a boisterous second round of _Mind Your Biscuits!_ when Lady Balfax returned from the stables, mostly clean but still reticent to get closer than the doorway.

“Sorry I missed the opening ceremonies,” she directed at Tristan, then smiled genially at Cassidy. “And please don’t think me rude if I don’t get too close. I’m ripe, you see.”

The woman seated on the floor beside him slowly tilted her head and bloomed a bright smile, her eyes taking in the swollen belly while nosing the fact that yes, they could _still_ smell her from _here_ _great goddess what was that?_ and she let out a laugh of such absolute joy, it made Tristan’s heart skip.

“Well played,” she applauded. “I bow in respect.”

To which Margie ducked her head and dipped in a small show of gratitude.

“You’re not _that_ ripe, though,” Tristan noted. “Got a few months left at least.”

“Do you _want_ me to come in and hug you?” the redhead threatened, holding open her arms. “Because I will, and then you can stink of .. stink, too.”

Tristan bit back a snort. Her eyes had flicked to her son in the pause, and he could only _imagine_ what she’d edited out of there. _Six older brothers, indeed._

“Christian,” Margie said then, casually folding her arms over her protruding middle. When she had the boy’s attention, she resumed, “Why not go ask Mister Winter about a snack, and give Uncle T and Miss Cassidy some time to settle in. How’s that sound?”

“Sounds good,” he chirped, popping to his feet and folding Tristan in a hug. “Welcome, Unkatea.”

“Thanks, fiuàrd.” He stroked the boy’s back, and let him tuck close. “See you at supper, yeah?”

“Ok,” Christian replied, pulling away and turning toward Cassidy. After a tiny hesitation, he offered her the same. “Welcome, Miss Cas’dy.”

“Thank you, Christian.”

And while her voice was steady, her eyes were wide as moons over the boy’s strawberry blonde curls. In the doorway beyond, Tristan saw Margie tilt her head thoughtfully. Then she gave him an approving look, and returned to the hallway.

“Come along, Sadie,” the Lady of the House chirped as she moved off.

The dog scampered from her bed, and with a nudge of her shoulder herded Christian out the door. After their sounds had faded, Tristan ventured,

“So, you think…”

His voice did something odd at the end. It pinched a little, like a sour memory, and he’d have to take a closer look at that later because-

“Yes,” she was saying. “Someday, yes.”

He nodded, “But not now.”

“I think I’d resent myself, if I did it now.” Cassidy looked at him then, and her expression was naked; honest. “Does that change things?”

“No.” His response was gentle but immediate, uttered almost before she’d finished, and Tristan shifted position to sit cross-legged in front of her. “Actually, I find your level of self-awareness arousing as hell, but let’s maybe .. backtrack a moment, ok?”

After a pause, she rearranged herself to mirror him. “Ok.”

“Ok.”

Tristan reached out to take hold of the edge of the circular rug she was sitting on, and casually tugged her closer, so their knees were touching. Her eyes did something a little intense at the flippant display of strength, and he filed it away for later but otherwise maintained focus. Because he wasn’t the type to dodge a topic anymore, and this one would have so many layers over time there was no benefit in putting it off. So he rested his palms on her calves, cycled a breath, and fixed her with a steady gaze; a disarming smile.

“This is not a test,” he told her. “Let’s make that clear up front.”

Cassidy huffed a small laugh in response, but was otherwise silent. She did not avert her eyes.

“I hope to have children someday,” he resumed. “Not right now. Not ‘by x date’. Someday. Because I like the idea of family, even if my paternal side is occasionally a shit show.” That got a fuller, more complete chuckle, and he squeezed her calves in quiet acknowledgment. “That’s the short version. The longer version is probably best saved for another time, but suffice it to say if we get to that point, we’ve _also_ probably progressed beyond hypotheticals.”

He watched her face curl up in a slow smile as he spoke, so by the end his words had less gravitas than they might have had, as his face moved to mirror hers. She lifted a hand to cup his cheek, and ran her thumb over the apple of it.

“I know you’re a rare breed, Tristan,” she confessed. “And not just in the company you keep. But I agree, we don’t need to discuss that now. Just .. know that I appreciate how careful you are, regardless.”

“You’re welcome.” He tipped forward then, and smacked an exaggerated kiss to her lips. Then he stood, and offered her a hand up. “So did he wear you out? Want a power nap before supper?”

“Good goddess don’t tempt me,” she mock-cried, letting him help her to her feet. When he just blinked blankly at her in return however, she blinked back with a tinge of surprise.

“Oh. You’re serious?”

“I know _I_ could use one, and we have…” He looked to his wristwatch, and did a quick calculation, “about forty minutes. I’ve found twenty works the best.” His attention shifted back to her, and he knitted their fingers together before leading her toward the door.

“Am I about to witness Tristan Rozenberg’s Famous Micro-nap Anywhere trick?”

“There are worse things to be known for,” he countered. “Also, we’ve been dating .. two months, give-or-take?”

“‘Give’ I suppose, but yes,” she smirked playfully.

“And I’ve not shown you my - apparently famous - micro-napping ‘trick’?”

She considered, then, “There’ve been times I’ve gotten in, and you were just getting _up_ from a nap. And I’ve caught you once or twice on your sofa in the _middle_ of one. But I’ve only ever seen you _fall_ asleep after…" Her lips curled in a teasing grin, "An' that'd surely dull a Jack some, wunnit?”

If the look hadn’t already been inviting enough, the way her voice dipped into a North Buckden drawl at the end kinda did things to him that he didn’t want to acknowledge .. in his best friend’s house .. in the middle of the afternoon .. right after he’d offered to go lie down with her for a bit.

She seemed to cotton to this as well, and her tone shifted back toward something more ribbing than sultry.

“Fine, but I will absolutely put the onus on _you_ if we oversleep.”

“Trust me,” Tristan laughed as he opened the guest room door. “Christian won’t let that happen.”

* * *

“Three,” he whispered into her ear. “Two. One.”

“UNKATEA! MIZCAS’DY!”

The door handle creaked an inch, then snapped back abruptly when-

“Christian Avery Westwood _don’t you dare!”_

Cassidy’s back shook against his chest as she laughed.

“Told you,” Tristan said.

* * *

It was a positively perfect late afternoon, and after supper they spent the rest of it camped out on the back lawn with sweet summer beverages, and lighthearted conversation. Christian migrated uninhibited from lap to lap, Sadie his constant second shadow. The sun moved toward setting as he regaled each captor with long-winded tales of three-year-old coherency, and even though his deeper breaths were starting to resemble yawns well before Miss Noreen came to collect him for bath-and-bedtime, good-night / sleep-tights were exchanged all around a _few_ times before he was finally ready to be herded off, the cattle dog trailing loyally behind.

As none of them were hungry enough to warrant preparing a full meal for dinner, Mister Winter provided them with a sensible assortment of finger foods to pick from instead, along with a pitcher of iced tea and a bucket of beers, then retired for the evening with their thanks. The household stilled, and soon the only sounds behind their conversation were the murmurations of crepuscular things, and the occasional whinny or snort in the distance.

“Not that I think he’s _lying_ ,” Cassidy grinned at Margie, giving Tristan a playful elbow as she did. “But he _is_ prone to pulling the one with bells on now and then, so I have to ask: Is it true you and Leo met because you punched someone in the face?”

The redhead rolled her eyes with immense adoration, hand smoothing over her swollen middle as she leaned back on the yard lounger into the crook of her husband’s shoulder.

“Great goddess Tristan, is _that_ what you told her?”

“It’s what happened, though,” he responded around his beer — with a shrug, and without hesitation.

“One of the most magnificent things I’ve ever seen,” Leo interjected. “Absolute perfection.”

“Yes, fine,” Margie relented with a reluctant smile. Her focus shifted back to Cassidy. “I was in Murn for a university friend’s wedding, and they were there on a recruitment thing at the OFC. We happened to be at the same bar at the same time when some guy I was shooting billiards with got a bit handsy and…”

She made a motion with one palm, jabbing the heel up at a sharp angle that would be just as effective now as then.

“So I’m a little high on adrenaline, because I _know_ I just broke this man’s nose and sure, I’m surrounded by friends who I _hope_ would back me up on being justified, but I’m also not a local and you never _really_ _know_ until then, right?”

The two women shared a look that spoke volumes, and Tristan recognized the bond that was forged within it was immediate. He passed a glance to Leo, who seemed waiting to meet him with a similar revelation. It was fascinating to witness.

“So I’m just coming to grips with the ‘oh shit’ of the moment when this .. specimen-” and here she gestured across herself at Leo, who smirked but still coloured at the collar, “-in Rowan Vert greens puts his coin down and says ‘I’ll have a go, if you’re game.’”

Margie’s voice dropped in affectation at the line - passable, just the right amount of swagger - but then her face softened with so much love as she looked at her husband, it wrenched Tristan’s chest a little. At his side, Cassidy nestled in when his arm offered to draw her closer.

“Have I ever told you about the first time _we_ met?”

It was an odd triptych of reactions that question gathered: Margie looked curious; Leo, bemused; and Cassidy tipped him an expression that was both fond and vaguely surprised.

“ _Before_ the awards luncheon?” Margie asked.

“Yes,” Cassidy supplied when Tristan slanted his eyes at her, smirking behind his Hammerhead as he tipped it up for a swallow.

“Oh shit.” Leo looked almost stricken as he gestured between the other couple with his own bottle. “If I somehow missed this at The Hill-”

Tristan waved his hand in return, laughing, “No, no.”

“Good,” his friend asserted. “Because the only explanation I could possibly offer for failing so spectacularly as your wingman back then would have been ‘newlywed going to war’, and I’m not sure how I’d feel about that.”

“Nothing quite so romantic, I’m afraid,” Cassidy laughed. “I grew up in the Buckden. He and his sister came to the lounge I worked at when I moved to Lo Áilt.”

“Butoi-Botal?” Leo sat up a little from his slouch. When Tristan nodded, he ventured, “So .. lockdown?”

“Yeah,” Tristan nodded. “Aunna gave me shit for not noticing the flirtation-”

His friend snorted. “Aunna gave you shit. _Really_.”

Cassidy smoothed a palm over his ribs. “In his defense, I _was_ twenty-four at the time.”

“Say no more,” Margie chuckled, albeit a tinge bitterly. “As someone who was once on the younger end of ‘acceptable’, I get it.”

Cassidy passed her a sympathetic look, then concluded, “So really, we _re_ -met at the awards lunch.”

“And now you know,” Tristan affirmed, motioning to Leo with his bottle. “But because I’m an ass and cannot leave well enough alone, now I’m going to tell you that _Ethan_ was the one who told me she wasn’t seeing anybody, and that he thought we’d be good together.”

His friend’s expression did something almost miraculous, and Tristan let slip a smug grin in response; felt Cassidy pull in a breath, and tilted toward her conspiratorially, preparing to say something about how, yes, Lord Westwood had his _own_ sordid history with her costar-

But then-

“He did?”

Cassidy’s wan voice at his ear startled him. Tristan reared away just far enough to look at her.

“During intermission,” he confessed. “Before they started presentations.”

She tilted her head at him thoughtfully, then gave him a coy little smile and sipped her iced tea. It was the kind of reaction that begged a follow-up question, but .. maybe not in company.

Bless his friends though. A short moment later, Margie was patting her husband on the chest, and moving to rise.

“Walk with me, darling. Baby says I need to stretch before bed.”

Leo didn’t protest. Instead there was a courtesy exchange of ‘thank you for the evening’-s and ‘see you in the morning’-s, and then he was leading her through the eastern gate to make a day’s end circuit of the stableyard.

As the gate clacked shut, Tristan turned to Cassidy.

“What-”

It was as far as he got. She sealed his mouth with hers in a slow, gentle kiss that spoke of great depth and promise; lifted a hand to guide one of his toward her hip, then slid fingertips up his arm to curl into his hair; gripped light across his scalp as she parted his lips with hers, and he caved to the invitation.

* * *

“What’d he tell you?” he managed into a break.

Her inhale vibrated across his lips. “‘Don’t be timid’.”

* * *

Tristan had been coming to Balfax Manor since he was seven.

He could navigate any route to his suite de facto blindfolded.

* * *

“I like her.”

Tristan flicked a sideways glance at his oldest friend, then re-joined him in watching the two women stroll across the misty lawn, arms linked like long-time friends. Christian and Sadie cavorted in their wake.

He nodded.

“I do, too.”

Cassidy’s laugh rolled across the yard as she pulled the hedgerow gate, and both women cast looks back to the house. His girlfriend lifted a hand and smiled. He mirrored her, reflexive.

“You know you’re in for it, right?”

Tristan huffed a bemused laugh as the women headed toward the stableyard, tailed by the boy and his dog. Then he held up his coffee mug in wordless acknowledgement.

Leo gave him a slanted grin in return, and clinked his own against it.


	5. [interlude]

“Was I wrong, though?”

The Zinise Foundation Gala swirled with colour and light around them, conversation and music vying for supremacy while staff with canapés wove fluidly through the tumult. It was a cacophony of activity he was slowly starting to enjoy again, thanks to the woman standing a short distance away.

As if sensing his attention, Cassidy caught his eye over the shoulder of the Patron she was being directed into taking a photograph with, and her smile brightened more for his gaze than the popping flashbulbs. It kicked his pulse up a little, he wouldn’t lie.

Ethan’s elbow moved out to nudge him. When he glanced over, bright blue eyes were slanted sideways to meet him, and shining slyly behind those stupidly long lashes. Tristan huffed a sigh into his champagne flute, and dropped his free hand into his hip pocket.

“No,” he acquiesced. Grudging, but only affectedly so. “You pegged me ages ago, E.”

A fraction of silence.

Then the blonde belted a laugh.


	6. Chapter 6

Tristan chuckled as he opened the front door. “Did you forget your key, pasăre?”

Martin blinked up at him from the stoop, then gave himself a little shake.

“Didn’t realize you’d ever sent one,” he returned, mouth curling up at the corners. “Also, did you just call me ‘bird’?”

“Oh, hey.” Tristan turned what would’ve been an amorous sweep into a kiss into a slightly awkward clasp of the shoulder. “Uh .. yeah. Sorry. You’re-”

“Oshit,” Martin chirped, expression twisting in a grimace as he backed down. “You’re expecting _actual_ company.”

“-early. Jackass,” Tristan scoffed in return, and stepped aside to thumb over the threshold.

* * *

They were having beers on the terrace when he heard Cassidy call his name from the front room. Martin made no move to rise; rather settled deeper into his seat as Tristan set his bottle down, stood up, and went to greet her.

“Hi!” she quipped, setting her things down on the mission bench. Her head swerved slightly to look past his approach, volume dropping as she added, “Is he here?”

“Hello, and yes,” Tristan responded, striding directly into her space, and sweeping her into that kiss he’d been hanging on to.

Cassidy returned it ardently, tucking up against him and clutching across his nape for several beats before ten days of build-up had burned off enough to temper themselves, and even then it was a slow resignation. When they parted, she finger-combed the ruffle she’d put in his hair, and he hooked a few errant curls back behind her ears.

“He’s early,” she said, looking mildly frantic as she plucked at her pale pink blouse, smoothed crinkles from her straight-legged slacks.

“Feel free to give him shit about it,” Tristan replied, holding out a hand as he turned toward the patio. “He already did.”

She tilted him a sardonic smile, cycled a breath, and threaded her fingers with his. He reeled her in, brushed another quick kiss to her lips, and led her across the sitting room.

“Hey, Marty,” he called.

Beyond the archway, their guest’s shadow grew long over the boards as he got to his feet.

* * *

“Did you grow up in a musical household?”

Tristan glanced askance from the grill; watched as Cassidy folded herself into her seat on the arched patio sofa, tucking her bare feet up beside her and cradling her drink near her hip as she regarded the man seated further down the curve. From the front room, Don Henley told them he’d been searchin’ for the daughter of the devil himself, and Tristan could see one of Cassidy’s fingers tapping a rhythm against her glass; the subtle nod of her head on the backbeat.

“I’d like to think so,” she replied. “Da worked in timber, so he’d be gone for weeks at a stretch. But he’d bring albums home from the different regions he was sent to, and always seemed to be humming something when he was around.” Her eyes flicked to include Tristan, who knew these facts already but was content to hear them again. “Mims still plays piano for the local chorus; gives lessons to kids after school. She taught Kade and me, but he picked up other stringed instruments on his own, and I was more than happy to sing whatever song he was playing because he was self-conscious of his voice.”

“That sounds like a ‘yes’.” Martin looked over to regard Tristan. “I’m calling that a ‘yes’.”

“I think that’s a ‘yes’,” Tristan agreed, eyes returning to his task.

“What about you?” She was laughing a little as she said it, cheerily swinging the topic back around. “Did you learn to play guitar in Rebma, or after you left?”

“After, although I remember my mother played something very like a harpsichord, and apparently my father is occasionally a percussionist.” Martin’s tone was jovial, and tinted with curiosity. “Did you figure that out on your own, or did Tristan tell you?”

“A bit of both,” Cassidy confessed. “He mentioned a musician friend, who I figured was you; but also my brother had the same creases on his fingertips, after years of playing. I felt yours when we shook hands.”

The man let out a huff of laughter at that. “Fair enough,” he said. Pause, then a lighthearted, “I bet you keep him on his toes.”

Her voice was adoring. “It's a mutual ballet, trust me.”

Something about that exchange made Tristan laugh even as it warmed his heart. Made him want to crow _Don’t you just love how clever she is?_

“Still, part of me is impressed you figured out he was talking about _me_.”

Tristan’s head cocked of its own accord, and he shifted slightly to take a sidelong look at the scene.

“Well…” Cassidy paused a moment to sip her drink, and gather her thoughts. “I suppose it’s because I have cousins myself, and in _my_ family we all tend to get lumped together — think of one, think of us all. So when he implied those records hadn’t come from his sister, my brain reached for the next person of his generation as the likely source.”

“Which is me,” Martin accepted with a wry smile.

“Which is you,” Tristan affirmed, grinning in return as he closed the grill to let things settle a minute. He picked up his Hammerhead, and angled toward the sofa.

Cassidy laughed brightly, then made a small gesture across the gap between them, as though she’d tried to clap Martin’s knee from afar.

“I need to thank you, by the way,” she said into it. When Martin tilted his head in query, she motioned toward the living room. “I’ve listened to quite a lot of that collection by now, and yet I get the impression I’ve barely scratched the surface of what’s on offer. It’s exciting, and I’m grateful.”

“Then you’re welcome.” He lifted his bottle of Scarlett Ale in toast, adding, “And thanks in return. It’s nice to meet another true connoisseur.”

Her smile was a little rosy at the edges as she demurred. “Do I really qualify for that title if I don’t understand what they’re saying, though?”

Martin shrugged. “I can’t speak Weir for shit, but I still appreciate the unique cadence of their poetry.”

Tristan felt himself perk up a bit. “You understand Weir?”

“God no,” Martin guffawed. “I picked up a few phrases, over the years.”

The way he casually averted his gaze when he said it, Tristan was sure he didn’t want to ask after that any more than he already had. So he was a bit grateful himself when Cassidy interjected with,

“You _do_ make a fair point, though.” She looked thoughtful, and Tristan shifted his attention back to the grill before he got thoroughly distracted. “I couldn’t hold a _conversation_ in Murnese, but if you asked me to perform the second soprano role of _O Bardo de Jöpe_ , I’d ask what key you preferred.”

Martin hummed in acknowledgment. “And does that make it any less a joy to perform?”

“No,” she stated. “It doesn’t.”

“See? Connoisseur.” His tone was both kind and amused, which made Tristan smile at the steaks he was tending. “Y’know, I had a feeling we were gonna get on when T told me he’d finally given _Double Fantasy_ another listen-”

Tristan sucked his teeth in reflex, and pulled a face. “I’m still firmly on the fence about that one,” he said. “John’s stuff is beautiful and honest, but Yoko’s-”

Martin let loose a peal of laughter that startled birds from the nearby oaks; drew Tristan’s full attention.

“Jesus it _kills me_ when you directly oppose her on shit like that,” he practically howled.

And it took Tristan a moment to cotton to his meaning, but when he did, he decided the opening was enough of a cue to finally acknowledge that last common thread.

“Yeah, well, what are younger siblings for, if not to _sling_ shit now and then?”

“Wouldn’t know,” the other man shrugged. “Only child. But it sometimes felt like I had one by proxy, and it _was_ a secret joy watching you rile her up from afar now and then.”

Tristan saw Cassidy’s brow tick upward at that, but she refrained from comment or question. Rather she seemed to focus on their guest just that much more; and in his head, a clock started counting.

* * *

The sliver of light leaking out from beneath the bathroom door switched off. A moment later, Tristan heard the door to the guest room click shut. Cassidy nuzzled against him in the moonlit dim, and he pulled her a little closer in reflex.

“They were together,” she said. Her words were barely more than a breath across his chest when she spoke. “Martin, and your sister. They were lovers.”

It was a statement made in confidence, but delivered confidentially. Tristan gave the only response he could.

“Yes.”

When the pause drew out longer than expected however, he smoothed a hand up her side to thumb over her shoulder, prompting gently,

“You have thoughts about that?”

“No,” Cassidy assured, firmly. “At least, not about their relationship. Just…”

She lifted her head then, and propped it on a fist to look at him. He returned her gaze, imploring.

“I’m gathering that she kept a _lot_ of secrets,” she concluded.

Tristan let out a rueful huff, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling in a long-suffering acceptance of fact.

“Likely more than I will ever know.”

And then he felt a little guilty for saying it that way, because it really wasn’t Aunna’s fault she’d played everything so close to the vest. To hear Martin tell it - and he had no reason to lie on the subject - Oberon had begun conditioning that response in her following Mirelle’s death, even going so far as to use the princess’s discovery of her friend’s shapeshifting ability as the reason for her inadvertent suicide-by-Pattern at age fourteen.

(Every part of him had reared up _hard_ at that, when it’d come out — the brother who loved but never quite understood her; the soldier who sought to support and protect her; the counselor who still longed to help her, even though she was gone. The revelation had recoloured all of his memories of their grandfather, and recalibrated so many of hers…)

He felt the fabric of his shirt shift as Cassidy’s hand splayed across his sternum, and reached up to lay his own hand across it.

“He still loves her.”

It was another low-spoken fact. Tristan made a slow nod in response.

“Always will, I suspect.” One corner of his mouth lifted then, and he added, “Park went both ways, though.”

Her voice was wispy with a smile. “She told you that?”

“Eventually,” he admitted, finally turning his attention back to the woman above him. “I was pretty confident she’d been seeing someone for a while, before the war, but she refused to confirm it until we were on the Front. So I didn’t meet him, or discover who he was, until after.”

Cassidy examined him for a long moment, then seemed to come to an understanding: that none of this was common knowledge, but they trusted her discretion enough to let her in on it. He shifted slightly to mask the twitch in his shorts he always felt when she put something together; twisted his hips away, and folded an arm behind his head to make the motion a casual repositioning.

“Settle a bet for me,” he deflected. “When did you know?”

She cast him a wry expression before her gaze turned inward, and she was quiet for a thoughtful moment. Then,

“There was a song…” She hummed a few bars of _You Can Close Your Eyes_ , and when he nodded that he knew it, she continued, “He got this look on his face - far away and melancholy, but still happy somehow? - and then he told a story about the two of them going to see the artist at a club called The Troubadour, and how she’d called it sentimental drivel but at least she could understand what he was saying, which I think I correctly took for a jab at Dylan-”

Cassidy cut off when Tristan’s wide-eyed expression registered, always dazzled by her ability to just _recall entire scenes_. He grinned, then bit back a laugh when she pinked in response, and sank down to resting against him again. He folded her close, and gave a comforting squeeze.

“To say Aunna kept a lot of secrets would be an understatement,” he confessed. “And of those I _do_ know, many are moot at this point, including that one. But it’s really not mine to pass out, so I don’t. I hope you understand.”

Cassidy stilled before lifting up again, and fixed him with a deeply fond expression.

“I love you,” she stated.

And it wasn’t like he’d never been told that before. It was just funny sometimes how those words could affect him, the first time someone directed them his way. If the phrase was cavalier, for example - spoken within a few days, or tossed out mid-coitus - he tended to be skeptical of its validity…

Hearing her say it now though, Tristan realized he’d been sitting on his own declaration for weeks — since the visit to Balfax at least, but likely longer. And she hadn’t made it some grand gesture; she’d just said it. Because he’d done something that made her feel like saying it.

The smile that spread across his face was warm and adoring, and the hand behind his crown reached for hers instead.

“I love you, too,” he replied, combing fingers into her hair; easing her lips down to his.

* * *

Martin did not join them for breakfast.

He was already gone.

He’d brewed coffee and set the service however; left a note atop a short stack of albums next to it. Tristan picked the sheaf up, and tilted it so Cassidy could read if she wanted to.

> _Thought it best to duck out before your goddamn Malwainese hospitality cost you a rare few days together. No offense, T_ — _but sometimes, it’s exhausting. /g_
> 
> _Anyhow, slàintate. And I mean that. You deserve it._
> 
> _I’ll keep in touch._
> 
> _~ M_
> 
> _pS - fwiw, something tells me she’ll like this one_

There was an arrow leading to the edge of the page. It had been pointing to a blue sleeve covered with blocky, darker blue-and-white lettering: _Madman Across the Water Elton John_.

Cassidy lifted the album. Turned it over pensively.

“One evening together, and he thinks I’ll like _this one?”_ She cast Tristan a sideways glance full of sly skepticism. He shrugged, and settled onto the sofa behind her, setting the note aside.

“I may have mentioned you a few times in our correspondence,” he admitted shamelessly, taking up the still-steaming carafe to pour them each a cup. “I like to challenge how observant he is, sometimes. It’s entertaining to an ex-CO like me.”

Cassidy pulled a face of awe and respect. “He _is_ quite keen, isn’t he? I bet the two of them were kindling and f-”

She balked suddenly, and Tristan turned his gaze up to catch her averting hers; cheeks flushing.

“I am .. so sorry. That just got very nearly awkward.” She slanted him a sidelong grimace, every line of her cringing as she lifted the record. “Shall I..?”

Tristan chuckled and shook his head; reached out to wrap his free hand around her thigh, down low behind her knee. He gave a comforting squeeze.

“Trust me: If not the specific acts, I’m well aware of what the pair of them likely got up to as very consenting adults. But I appreciate your valiant attempt at a rollback.”

She laughed, embarrassment waning. Tristan ran his thumb across her skin as he let go, and resumed pouring.

“And please,” he answered her, indicating the record in her hand with a tilted, slightly distracted nod. “I’m not familiar with the artist, but Marty’s mentioned him enough times to make me curious.”

He added a little milk to his cup; a teaspoon of honey to hers. She crossed to the music cabinet and slid the album from its sleeve; settled it carefully on the turntable, cranked the machine, and lowered the needle. Turned back to the sofa as the piano began-

-and froze; the cessation of her movements so abrupt, it arrested his attention.

Cassidy’s face…

For the barest moment, Tristan wanted to haul Martin back, and punch him in the gut.

“Cass?” he ventured.

But then she turned inward, and took a hesitant step toward the sofa to rest a hand on the arm, caught in some beautiful memory that had her lips curling up, creasing her cheeks and crinkling her hazel eyes in a look of warm familiarity-

-that occasionally warped into bright confusion because-

“It’s so close,” she murmured as the music built, gaze glassy with emotion when she finally lifted it to meet Tristan’s.

“Kade wrote this,” she said. “Only .. not quite. Something remarkably like. But it’s _so close_ …”

She tilted introspectively again as the key changed; gasped a small breath when the chorus kicked in.

“Even _sounds_ like him,” she exhaled, and now Tristan wanted to haul Martin back, and plead for all the Elton John in his collection.

Cassidy slowly settled onto the sofa, and folded herself into him; slipped her arms around his middle and rested her temple on his collar. He leaned back to accommodate, coffee forgotten in favour of returning the embrace.

“He’s good oats,” she said. “And he’s very, _very_ good at music.”

Tristan chuckled. “I’ll tell him you said so.”

The arms around him squeezed lightly as the song seemed to repeat itself.

“Will you tell me what he’s saying?” she asked.

It took a moment to find a good jump-off point, but he did it; slightly tonelessly and well behind the beat, but he did it.

Because she’d asked him to. And he was starting to think saying ‘no’ was going to prove difficult in the long haul, when it came to Charlotte Cassidy de la Mahre.

* * *

They sat cuddled like that through two more songs - until time came to flip the album - by which point her unexpected well of emotions had run dry, and she was ready to move on. Tristan carefully combed her hair back when she straightened; cupped her face in his hands, and ran his thumbs across her cheeks; leaned in to press his lips to her forehead, her lips, the end of her nose. She giggled at that, and he got up to turn the record.

“Truthfully, I’m a little torn that he’s gone,” she confessed as he settled back down beside her, and accepted the mug she passed over. “On the one hand, I was looking forward to more stories over coffee-”

“He left you new music and a carafe,” Tristan interjected. “That doesn’t qualify?”

Cassidy’s gaze flicked up as she stirred a little more honey into her drink. Tristan grinned toothily in return. She rolled her eyes, but with a weary smirk that showed the expression to be amorous, and resumed her statement.

“On the other hand, it _does_ free up our options for the next couple days.”

She casually brushed loose strands of hair away from her face, and took a delicate sip of her coffee, hazel eyes batting innocently as she regarded him.

A pause to swallow his own mouthful, then,

“If we take the Wester, we could make Lo Áilt by supper,” he suggested.

Cassidy graced him with a pleased smile.

* * *

The couple cleaned up, packed a suitcase with a few day’s essentials, and caught a hack to the train station. He sent a ‘gram to Willow Trace after booking their passage, knowing it would travel the wires buried alongside the tracks, and be delivered by Runner well in advance of their arrival-

_In the village until early Weds. Would like to bring someone by during. Reply tMH. -LTRB_

-because when they had originally knocked around the idea of visiting the Buckden for Harvest Moon, Tristan had reached out to Lily and Charles about the possibility of using his suite for the stay; to which his mother’s youngest sister had given the traditional response (‘deschis mereu doras’) before asking which vintage he’d prefer to take home after, pin oak or cherrywood.

-because later, when Cassidy had decided she would rather be available to celebrate his birthday mid-All Souls, they committed to attending a fundraising event on the holiday weekend instead, and he’d sent regrets to his aunt and uncle the same day he’d posted the RSVP; received a letter back assuring him there was no harm done, that the cask could easily go back into storage until Holly Moon, and oh-by-the-by their Lorne was officially petitioning for his Registry _bless_ but my if he didn't have a fine crop of stock to put before the Panel…

-because he liked the Flynt side of his family, and it felt rude not to offer to stop by if he was in the area.

“You don’t plan to drop in on them _tonight_ though, do you?” Cassidy asked as they boarded the train, showing their passes to the Porter. Tristan chuckled.

“For dinner? _Goddess_ no. Rhone would kill me,” he replied, wrapping one hand around hers before lifting their bag with the other, and following where directed. “Breakfast is another matter entirely, though.”

* * *

Mid-trip found them braving the dining car for a light brunch, and while a few of the passengers noted their arrival with whispers of interest, in the time they spent there they were only approached by three people: the waiter, and a father/daughter duo who didn’t so much ‘approach’ as ‘pause while passing by’.

The father was a civvy-clad infantryman, by the cut of his frame, who gave Tristan a nod-of-salute as his freckle-faced daughter of maybe eleven asked Dahm de la Mahre if she would mind signing her sheet music, all while tremulously holding out one of Cassidy’s arias.

“Yes of course,” the woman responded with an accommodating smile. “Do you have a pen? Who shall I make it out to?”

Tristan loved how genuine Cassidy was in her engagement and encouragement, especially with the younger public. She praised the girl’s lofty aspirations, knowing how difficult that particular piece was to perform (a2, sc3, the one that’d gained her the most acclaim, and still gave him chills to hear); confessed she understood what a monumental achievement reaching an F above the scale was, but assured the girl that as long as she took care of her instrument, training it to sustain the note was merely a matter of patience. Buoyed by this, the girl beamed and thanked her as she received the (now invaluable, by the look on her face) sheet music-

-at which point the wall of man at her back placed a hand on her shoulder.

His timing had been impeccable. She’d clearly been gearing up to launch into a conversation, her earlier nerves swept away by Cassidy’s amiability. The girl glanced up at the touch, and didn’t close off so much as remember herself. He offered her a doting look, then glanced between the other two adults before settling on the woman.

“I saw the Beacon Players in Stalling’s Field,” he told her, his voice a low timbre within his smile. “Best week of the war, by far. Thank you.”

Cassidy softened, and held out a hand. “You’re welcome, Messir..?”

“Grant,” he replied, lifting his palm from his daughter’s shoulder to accept. “Master Sergeant, four-oh-first Infantry. Retired.”

Her face instantly brightened in recognition, then pinched slightly with an aborted cringe as her eyes flicked to the girl between them. But the man only made a small, almost coy nod far over her head, and directed his charge toward the leading end of the car.

“Next time you see Carter, give him my best, would you?” he requested in departure.

“I will,” she replied, still slightly dumbfounded, but recovering quickly.

Tristan returned the Veteran’s parting nod with a sketched salute, and watched as he guided the girl away. His gaze shifted to Cassidy.

“Small world,” he opined, barely fighting the grin that wanted to curl his lips.

“Isn’t it just,” she responded, turning back to the table. She lifted her neglected coffee, adding, “That man left quite an impression on one of my colleagues, back in the day.”

“Yeah, I gathered there was a story in that exchange,” he chuckled, glancing past her again. The pair had settled in a booth near the exit, side-by-side with their backs to the wall, and while the girl was gesturing with carefree animation from her window seat, her father sat askance with one leg in the aisle; protective, ready to act. The universal pose of the recently retired soldier.

“He’s your type, isn’t he,” Cassidy commented offhandedly.

Her voice was so low, Tristan only heard it for the small amplification of the coffee mug near her lips. When his eyes snapped to her again, she met him with an expression of perfect understanding.

“Shoulders you could measure an axe handle by,” she offered. “Arms that say you wouldn’t need one in the first place.”

She wasn’t telling him these things to tease, or to chastise. It was simply an observation. All the same, he felt a little embarrassed for his part, and opened his mouth to apologize for ogling when her free hand reached over to smooth across the back of his, lying flat on the table between them.

“Don’t apologize for looking, Tristan,” she said, not unkindly. “You’ve been clear about that side of you from the start, and getting upset with you for admiring would be selfish. Especially when I don’t disagree.”

Something in his brain actually misfired. “What was that?”

“Carter’s always been notorious for exaggeration, but in this case…” Cassidy tipped a quick look back over her shoulder. “Were I not already so satisfied, I would _absolutely_ climb that tree.”

Beneath the table, her ankle hooked around his, and slid up his calf.

“…I love you so much right now,” he heard himself say. And it was almost _painfully_ true.

* * *

Short notice or not, Tristan was unsurprised when the reply waiting for them at The Marigold Hotel came in the form of a coachman; one of those who lived in town, so when the offer to stay at Willow Trace for the night was summarily declined, the driver wasn’t too put out by delaying their return trip until morning. He’d be hitched and waiting by 8:15, he said; breakfast would be served at 8:30.

It was a pre-planned counter-proposal, to be sure. Because Nolan coordinated strategic courtesies like Tristan once had Ops, and never missed a beat. When the day came to replace him, it’d take a quartet to run that household half as well.

* * *

They signed for two nights in a corner suite, and after unpacking their essentials, he offered her first right of refusal on how to fill the evening.

She responded by running a hand up his chest, and backing him toward the bed.

* * *

“ _Cass_ ,” he hissed, blunted nails digging into the mattress beneath him, eyes squeezed tight but brows arching up in pleasure, jaw somehow both slack and clenching because she was .. but hadn’t .. before ..

“Oh-” His body relented; went pliant. _Ohhh._

“Shhhhh,” she soothed from where she knelt between his legs, a second finger carefully sliding in alongside the first as the other hand palmed over his twitching length; pressed it to his stomach before squeezing lightly, then glossing over the head. “I’m enjoying the show, darling.”

* * *

“…there…”

Stuttered, on the inhale.

He gently drew the nub behind his front teeth, and lathed over it with the flat of his tongue.

Once.

She broke.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, his stomach growled.

“Like clockwork,” Cassidy chuckled against his chest.

Tristan shrugged unrepentantly beneath her.

* * *

It was still early - just nearing sundown - so they showered, and dressed, and decided to go for a stroll around the Common to enjoy the seasonal aesthetic; the shopfronts festooned in orange and gold; the great bundles of barley and rye, gathers of pumpkin and squash.

They snacked on artisanal goods as they browsed, in lieu of sitting for a full dinner. Lounged beneath a fiery-crowned century oak, and watched the sun fade behind its leaves, their fingers toying together in the grass.

They swayed a two-step for the quintet in the bandstand as night fell, and hummed along to the familiar ballad as they did; coiled up with her temple to his cheek, in full view of the terraces from Butoi-Botal.

They decided the snapper that’d tailed them from CdV wasn’t worth confronting when the young woman maintained a respectful distance, and proved to be the only one.

* * *

As promised, the coach was parked out front at precisely quarter after eight the following morning. They made a quick stop at the bakery on Walnut and Pine for an assortment of croissants en route, and arrived at their destination ten minutes later.

Nolan met them at the door in his perfectly pressed autumn khakis, and welcomed them to follow him to the back lawn, where Their Lord and Ladyship were anticipating their company.

Tristan embraced his kin with unaffected gladness, and made introductions after. Cassidy proffered the pastry box when Lily delightedly reached for it, and remarked at how lovely the garden looked in its early-autumn colours. Charles, who had only recently discovered his green thumb, gleefully offered to tour her around the flower beds later, if she were inclined to indulge him.

A short time into the meal they were joined by his cousin Lorne - dapper in jodphurs and tall boots, down to his shirtsleeves with a riding jacket slung over one arm - who raked a hand through his slightly damp salt-and-pepper hair as he crossed the lawn, hailing,

“Hullo hullo!”

Beside him, Cassidy murmured into her coffee,

“And me without a stitch of armour. Goddess among us.”

Tristan laughed as he got to his feet, recalling a comment she’d once made about chiseled jaws and sharp cheekbones.

“Hullo, Lorne,” he replied, embracing the man after he’d stooped to kiss Lily’s cheek; clasp Charles’s shoulder. “How goes the Panel?”

“Well met so far,” the other replied, returning the affection. “Da’s being a real hard line, but it’s all bluster since he’s already recused himself for my petition.”

He stepped back then, and his attention settled on the lone stranger at the table; flicked Tristan a look that said _Oh, well done_ before directing a charming smile her way.

“Dahm de la Mahre,” he said, extending one hand in greeting. “Augustus Lorne Flynt.”

“Messir Flynt,” she returned after dabbing her lips with her napkin, accepting his handshake but not rising to do it, as courtesy allowed mid-meal. “Cassidy, please.”

“Lorne then, if you will,” he returned, pulling out the chair to her other side as Tristan resumed his to the right. “Congratulations on your show’s success.”

She demurred reflexively (goddess, but he loved her humility) then brightened. “Congratulations on successfully petitioning for Panel review! I’ve never met someone going through the Registry process before…”

* * *

The group strolled the property after eating. It was the way of things, in the House of Flynt.

“I wonder if you might consider taking on one of my young stock,” Lorne said at one point during. “Nothing time-consuming, you ken. She’s got the basics well and solid. Needs mileage though.”

Tristan considered this, then asked, “General miles? Or the kind only I could get her?”

Lorne shrugged. “A bit of both, if it suits you. She’s smart, and I’d like to cite her as Foundation Stock down the line.”

Ahead, he saw that Lily had looped her arm around Charles’s; noticed Cassidy was holding his aunt's other hand as she strolled alongside. The man was pointing over toward the Big Forty, the women following his sightline.

“I suppose I could do that,” he said. “Any chance she might have a stablemate?”

Beside him, Lorne made a thoughtful sound. “Might have. She good in the saddle?”

Tristan slanted his cousin a stern expression. Lorne cringed.

“Too much?”

“If you meant it to be double-edged, yes,” Tristan replied.

“Not to start,” the other confessed, “but in saying it, I knew I could’ve chosen better.”

Tristan huffed a laugh. “Forgiven then. But yes, she can ride.”

Lorne nodded. “In that case, I’ll send you home with a pair.” He gripped his cousin’s bicep in a grateful squeeze. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure.”

* * *

It was the first time he’d visited since learning the truth.

Cassidy wrapped around him from behind; held her wrists together across his chest, and rested her chin on his shoulder

“Your Uncle Charles has promised to show me his winter garden,” she said.

Tristan brought a hand up to clutch around her forearm; tilted his temple into hers, and let his gaze half-lid. She held the position as long as he’d allow. Pressed a kiss to his collar when he broke it.

“Take all the time you need,” she concluded. And eased away.

He continued to stare down at the twin headstones with a heavy mixture of sadness and dark humor.

Because at this point, mother and sister both had been reduced to brittle ash.

* * *

“We should hope to see the pair of you for Holly Moon,” Lily stated, embracing Cassidy from a step above her on the stoop. “We’ll be in CdV for the holiday, and would be pleased to have you by.”

“Thank you, Lils, but we hope to make it north for the Hols,” Tristan responded on his girlfriend’s behalf, gripping his aunt in a hug when she became available to receive it.

“Oh?” Charles blinked owlishly at the couple in a nearly comical way.

“My mims is in Flatrun Vale,” Cassidy explained. “I make a point of going to see her over Yuletide.”

“Ah, family,” Lily laughed in his ear before pulling back. “The only excuse I’d accept.” When she met his gaze, she looked a little teary in adding, “Deschis mereu doras, mi fiuàrd.”

Tristan smiled, and cupped her papery cheek. “I know. Thank you.”

* * *

“Have you been corresponding with my mother behind my back?”

The question wasn’t accusatory, yet Tristan still cringed a little in his backward-facing seat.

“Not _exactly_.”

* * *

It started with an invitation.

> _Dear Messir Rozenberg,_
> 
> _I understand you to be a proper Buckden boy, but I wonder:_
> 
> _Have you ever experienced a Stejari Yule?_

Cassidy laughed.

“That woman. Goddess bless.”

* * *

“I told her I’d help cook.”

“Did she propose on my behalf, after?”

“…maybe.”

* * *

“All joking aside, she seems a delightful woman,” Tristan confessed, helping Cassidy step out of the coach when it halted in front of The Marigold. “I’d very much like to meet her, if you’d allow.”

“Of course I would.” She looked almost offended that he would question the thought, fingers clenching briefly around his in a soothing emphasis. “For all practical reasoning, I just met _your_ parents. Why should I protest you meeting mine?”

Any argument he could have made died on his tongue. Because she was right. When his father shut down following his mother's death, it was Lily and Charles - along with, to some smaller degree, Richard and Lucille Westwood - who had assumed the crucial parental roles his adolescent self needed. And while the latter had been gone for some time, the former pair had stood In Trust over more than just the Willow Trace Distillery throughout the decades since.

The spring of affection that came with the insight actually made him a little misty. She saw it, and brightened in response. Lifted a hand to his cheek, and brushed her fingers through the scatter of grey at his temple.

“Early day tomorrow,” she breathed. “Take me to bed, Tristan.”

* * *

“I love you,” he murmured into her ear, grinding deep as her walls clenched around him, coaxing his release into the protective barrier between them.

Her lips fluttered across the point of his jaw. “I love you, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> THIS IS MY EMOTIONAL SUPPORT OTP.
> 
> Which is to say that they're my soft fluffy distraction of choice when writing angst and death in other pieces starts to drag me down. So while it _says_ "complete", that's not entirely accurate, since I always have more brewing in the background...
> 
> Periodic surprise updates at best. That's what I'm saying. LOL
> 
> Kudos are love :) Comments are moderated (for spam, not content), but always welcome. :)


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